Sam could hear the muffled echoes of an intercom calling for Doctor Cranbrook. He opened his eyelids slightly peering through the slits. The room was intensely bright creating an immediate throbbing of his temples. He quickly closed his eyes and breathed slowly trying to banish the headache. He switched to his sense of hearing and focused his energy on deducing if anyone was in the room with him. A slight hum came from his immediate left-machinery of some sort. An irregular tapping seemed to be across the room paired with a swooshing sound. He honed in on this particular noise and realized that the swooshing was a fan but could not figure out the other sound. He imagined something beside a fan that would make irregular tapping noises and he suddenly recognized the hollow thunk of a Mylar balloon. After several minutes of listening, Sam figured he was indeed alone in this hospital room.
As his throbbing temples subsided, he realized that he was insanely thirsty. He felt the side of his bed for a call button, but before he could locate the device, the door creaked open and soft footsteps entered the room. Sam did not dare open his eyes again, so he croaked out a "Bright."
The person crossed the room to the fan and proceed to close the blinds. Sam recognized the swish of aluminum descending. He opened his eyes a slit and was rewarded with a dimly lit room.
"Better?" came a voice Sam had never heard before. It was a voice one would never hear in Idaho-a distinctly British accent. As Sam opened his eyes wider he took in the form of a tall thin man with dark curly hair parted to the side. He wore a long woolen jacket with the collar turned up. His gaze was piercing, and as he stepped closer to Sam, he steepled his fingers under his chin and began his interrogation.
Molly sat alone in her flat, a cup of tea resting on her knee. Her mind raced trying to decipher the past two days. Sherlock suddenly appearing bloodied and swollen in the lab was not something entirely new to her world, but what happened afterward was certainly a first for the smitten pathologist. His face was not the worst of his worries as he revealed several stab wounds to his torso. He demanded that Molly patch him up, and when she tried to insist that he needed a proper hospital and doctor, he grabbed her arms and looked pleadingly into her eyes. "The fate of the known world is riding on my immediate mending and disappearance for a few days. I will also need your flat."
"I, I don't..." Molly stammered.
"Bloody hell, there is no time to debate this as my blood loss and pulse indicate I will soon pass out in 35 seconds give or take three seconds and you better get me to the back room before anyone shows," Sherlock rasped breathlessly.
Molly gingerly took his left arm and encircled it around her shoulder, half walking, half dragging him to the back room. After guiding him down to the floor, upon which he grimaced on impact, she scurried about finding supplies to clean up the blood and sew up the wounds. She was relieved that he was astutely correct as to the timing of his lapse into unconsciousness-38 seconds. Twenty-two stitches would have hurt like hell not to mention the astringent she generously applied in haste. She could see the bruising begin to show and marveled as his ivory skin took on a patchwork appearance. He had a beautiful physique. She had seen him topless before, but never had the opportunity to gaze for more than a fraction of a second. His lack of regular meals kept him fairly thin, but he had well defined musculature that one would have taken for an avid swimmer. She traced the edges of one of his bruises and thought that she would do anything for this man who infuriated her on most occasions.
She grabbed some blankets from one of St. Bart's supply rooms as well as an IV and solution. She would not be able to get Sherlock out as long as he remained unconscious, and he needed hydration immediately. After rigging up a make shift IV stand in the back room and heaping on several blankets, she went back into the lab to keep watch. She was not sure what excuse she would make if anyone wanted access to the room; no one usually did, and she hoped this would be a normal day. She busied herself with the microscope and slides, but really she had no actual capacity for rational thought, so she pretended to go about her daily research and reports knowing she would have to do it all over again tomorrow, maybe.
A groan from the other room had her rousing suddenly and half falling, half jumping from her stool. She looked at the clock and could not believe it was 11:30. She vaguely remembered her boss peeking in at five letting her know he was off. She made some mumbled excuse that she needed to finish a few things and would be working a little late. As she opened the door, Sherlock was already pulling the needle from his arm and sitting up.
"Your flat then," he said wincing as he struggled to his feet. Molly obligingly nodded, knowing that he was going to be the worst patient one could imagine.
Author's note: Yes, it is all taking shape in my brain with a few twists and turns. I know I needed some Sherlolly moments right quick lest you lose interest. Do not fear, there will be many more to come as I find myself needing to satiate my own natural inclination toward this pairing. Thank you to my first followers! I am ecstatic beyond measure, and I will continue to work on this story for you alone should I procure no more fans:) I hope to get another chapter finished this weekend. I am a real-life teacher, so unfortunately my day job will get in the way at times, but I am quite dedicated to having a completed story in a few months. I hope to also wrangle my copy editor to beta my chapters in the future, but she is a bit busy now moving, so you will have to suffer a few grammatical mistakes. Do not hesitate to let me know as I notice others but feel hesitant to let them know. I will not take offense. Thank you so much for reading!