Chapter 3

One month earlier

Aspen pulled a stack of papers from the green basket marked homework. There was a million other things she would rather be doing than grading papers and doing lesson plans on a Saturday. She considered circle filing the papers which in teacher-ease meant throwing them in the trash. The majority of students and parents never even gave them a second glance and no one would miss a few pages of homework. She settled with stuffing them into her green canvas bag for later grading at home. If she could get her plans done in an hour, she would be able to squeeze in another viewing of "His Last Vow" before she had to make supper.

A noise from the other room startled Aspen from her incessant typing. She could see through the hallway into Mrs. Harroway's room. The weekend custodian was busy washing desks. His shaggy chestnut hair was certainly not the balding Greg she usually saw on a Saturday. He looked almost like a hobbit as he hunched over the surfaces. When he stood up, he was certainly not hobbit size; he must have been at least six feet tall. Aspen judged him to be in his late twenties, a few years younger than herself, but looks can be deceiving.

Most people thought she was still in her twenties and marveled that she had a fifteen-year-old son. She kept her light brown hair long and often had it in a simple ponytail away from her face. She could not be bothered with hair styles. Most people would consider her average in the looks department. Her lightly upturned nose and large brown eyes were in no way striking. At best, she could be cute with the right clothing and a little makeup. It all really did not matter to her as she lived mostly in her head when she was not teaching. She was so many other different characters throughout the years and sometimes was a bit startled when she saw a picture of herself.

She continued to assess the new custodian. No wedding ring, tattered gray tee shirt, loose blue jeans, and his walk was certainly a tell-horse rider. He was left handed and perhaps a little OCD. Each desk that he washed was in the same exact pattern of four corners and sides, then diagonal swipes, then small circles inside each section he did not cover, going from left to right then down then back left. Aspen watched him do several desks before she verified most definitely obsessive compulsive. She was so intent on watching this behavior that she did not notice when his gaze shifted up without a break in his cleaning.

His piercing eyes rested on the teacher across the hall noticeably watching him clean. She looked late twenties, a few years younger than himself. Her baggy blue Hoodie covered up any indication of her shape. Gray sweat pants and dirty sneakers completed the outfit. This teacher did not care about appearances. When she finally looked up to meet his gaze he waved and smirked. She shifted, looking embarrassed but waved back and went back to her typing.

Sam wondered if he should go say hello or just continue with the cleaning. She did not seem to want any more interaction based on her frantic typing, so he left it at that and moved on to the walls. He needed to keep this second job for at least another month so he could afford a few more items for the cabin. Life was all about moving in and moving on.

Sherlock woke to damp sheets and a side that was on fire. He was not in his own bed. Oh yes, Molly. A glass of water and a bottle of antibiotics sat on the bedside table. He did not have time for an infection let alone two knife wounds.

He pieced together the day of the stabbing. New foe, no name yet but someone highly connected with many crime syndicates and apparently in the possession of atomic weaponry, or at least connected with those who had the capabilities. Sherlock thought this may be related to Moriarty, but it did not have the cat and mouse feel of Jim Moriarty. This just had the feel of an insane dictator wanting to warn any potential enemies to stay away.

The noise of rattling pans broke Sherlock out of his speculations, and he suddenly had the distinct awareness of having to use the loo. That was a good sign indeed, but just thinking about the pain of moving at this point kept him motionless for another ten minutes until the pain of an overfull bladder won out. He gingerly swung his legs over the side of the bed, and grabbing the headboard, pushed himself into a crouched standing position. Luckily Molly's flat was fairly small and he calculated he needed only take twelve steps to reach his destination. By the time he was at the doorway, Molly was standing in front of him.

"Sher..." she began before he quickly waved her away.

"Loo," he painfully whispered continuing on his path.

"Oh, right then." She looked away slightly embarrassed and took a few steps back as he shuffled along. "I'll be right here if you need any, um, help." She closed the door slightly as he entered. He obviously did not care about modesty at this point. By the time he emerged, his face was even whiter than before if that was even possible.

He held onto the door jamb and managed to gasp out "Help now, " as his legs began to buckle. Molly ran to his side and placed his arm around her shoulder. She did not fancy seeing him in so much pain, but she was enjoying being needed and having the close contact that was usually reserved for her daily fantasies.

After she got him back into the bed she grabbed for the antibiotics and water. "You really need to have some Morphine Sherlock, something stronger than Ibuprofen," she said sheepishly.

"No," he barked as he rubbed his cheek. They both knew this was a reference to the sound slapping he had received from Molly not long ago after she tested him for drugs. He had insisted it was for a case, but everyone in the room knew about his drug riddled past and were just as upset as Molly. He could see the hurt in her eyes and he softened his voice. "I just need rest and...is that eggs I smell?"

"Oh, yes, I, um, thought you could eat a bit to get your strength up." The hurt was gone replaced by an eagerness to help. She darted out of the room and was back with a plate of scrambled eggs in all of ten seconds. Sherlock managed a pained smile as Molly propped him up with another pillow. The following scene was surreal at best as Molly fed Sherlock each bite. They gazed at each other in awkward silence both at a loss for words that would make this any less uncomfortable.

Molly stood up to go after the last bite and was stopped by Sherlock's warm hand on her arm. "Thank you, really, I mean it," he spoke softly as his blue green eyes conveyed sincerity that Molly was not sure he was even capable of.

"It's fine, um, I am happy to help. I just wish...I just wish we could get some other help, your brother, or John?"

Sherlock shook his head no. "Not yet...please, I have to get better."

"Alright, okay then," she whispered as she drew the covers up a little higher and resisted the urge to kiss his forehead. She did not need to, as his soft touch would radiate through her being for the rest of the day making Molly feel a little less lonely.