Molly rubbed her neck gingerly as she made her way down the hallway, checking inside each door as she progressed. She had just spent the last six hours hunched over a desk attempting to prepare the paperwork that under normal circumstances would have taken her fifteen minutes. However, under normal circumstances, the man it was no secret she was completely head-over-heels for wasn't dead in the morgue. She knew better, of course, but to the many employees of Bart's, this tragedy was not one to overlook. She had kept a constant sheen in her eyes to greet every new set of condolences from her friends and co-workers as she attempted to finish her work.
Couldn't Mycroft have handled this as well?
Finally, she reached the end of the hallway, certain that the ground floor was completely devoid of late-night stragglers. As she approached the familiar lab, she couldn't help but shake off an unusual feeling of emptiness.
He's not really dead, you sod.
John had been the worst. She had sat with him for over an hour, saying nothing. As she held his hand, her brain screamed at her to tell him the truth-to put him out of his misery-but she held. John had risen without a word and left without so much as a nod in her direction.
Molly grabbed the latch to Sherlock's drawer and pulled gently. The door opened to reveal a capped head, which quickly turned to look up at her from an upside-down position.
"All clear," she told him, as she rolled out the drawer and helped him to a sitting position.
"Right. Quickly."
Sherlock rolled out another unoccupied drawer, revealing a large duffel bag and slugged it over his shoulder. As soon as the bag hit his sides, he hissed a sharp intake of breath and let the bag slump to the floor.
"You're hurt," said Molly, a statement more than a question. "Let me see-"
"No time-I'll be fine. Let's go."
The two quickly prowled out of the back door, Molly leading the way, looking around each corner as they went. There was only a brief moment of panic when they had to pass Neil the night janitor, but their panic was quickly diminished when it was revealed that Neil was quite engrossed in his job of waxing the floors, earbuds railing an insanely loud tune. They reached the unmarked black car-Mycroft's handiwork, Molly assumed-as Sherlock extracted a set of keys from his ill-fitting blue jeans.
The ride to Molly's flat was completely silent, excluding Sherlock's mumbled curses at the state of London traffic at this time of night. They arrived, Molly leading the way again up the stairs and into the flat.
Sherlock threw his bag to the ground, removed the ball cap, and pushed straight past Molly, making a beeline to her laptop upon the dining room table. He immediately started clicking away, staring intently at the screen.
"Make yourself at home then," Molly murmured, more to herself than to him. "I'm just going to take a shower."
Sherlock hummed what seemed to be a response, so Molly proceeded to the bathroom.
As she let the warm water cascade over her sore and aching muscles, she had to laugh at the hilarity of the situation. Fake death aside, how many times had she fantasized about THE Sherlock Holmes in her flat? Of course, in her fantasies, he was there by choice, but she still counted it as a small victory. She giggled softly at the thought of him on her couch, watching her television, her cat Toby snaking through his long legs. Her light chuckle soon rioted into hysterical laughter, which caused her to realize just how exhausted she really was. Upon exiting the shower, she was forced to look in her cabinets for her old dressing gown, remembering it would make her a poor hostess to walk to the bedroom naked to retrieve her clothes.
Like he would even notice.
As she walked into the kitchen to make tea, Sherlock's face hadn't seemed to move from the screen, but he addressed her anyway, not bothering to turn around.
"No mention in the papers about Moriarty's death. His people could be choosing to keep it quiet."
Attempting to listen to Sherlock and make tea at the same time proved too much for Molly's clumsy, tired hands, as she lost her grip on the two mugs she was holding, one crashing to the floor.
The sound of the breaking mug caused Sherlock to turn quickly in his seat, issuing a gasp of pain at the sudden movement.
"Sherlock, why don't you let me look at your ribs now?" She quickly scooped up the pieces of broken mug from off the floor, placing them in the sink, and cleared off a spot on the low-set kitchen island, attempting to create a make-shift examination table.
"That won't be necessary," he said as he crossed the room to rifle through his bag for something.
"If they're broken, you should really be bandaged."
"Honestly, Molly, I don't know why you deem it your responsibility to-"
"SHERLOCK. SIT DOWN!" She yelled.
He stopped in his tracks and stared wide-eyed at Molly. Silence.
"You may be a genius, but I'm the one with the medical degree, and I need to be certain you're not bleeding internally. So get over here, let me look at you, and you can continue being a right git later!"
Molly was astounded at herself. She had no idea where this sudden spunkiness had come from, but it clearly worked, as Sherlock silently crossed the room and sat in front of her on the island.
"Thank you. Now let me see."
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes as he carefully removed the hoodie. The moment his torso was exposed, Molly had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep herself from gasping. Sherlock's upper abdomen was a violent shade of purple, extending from just below the nipples to his bellybutton.
Molly resigned herself to being professional and took a deep breath before taking Sherlock's arm and lifting it a bit so she could see the injury properly. She lightly touched her fingers to his fourth rib on the right side and even the slightest touch elicited a painful wince from Sherlock.
"Definitely broken. Just a minute," she ran to her bathroom cabinet to grab bandages and pain relievers from her first aid kit, and stopped by the freezer on the way back in.
"Not really an apt time for a snack, is it?" Sherlock asked, experimentally flexing his arms above his head, in obvious pain.
"I'm getting ice-you're swollen, and it should help with the pain."
She removed three bags of frozen vegetables and filled a glass with water at the sink.
"Take these," she said as she handed him the pills and water.
He took a quick swig of water and popped the pills in his mouth, eyes still rolling at the idea of being the patient.
"Now, take a deep breath-"
"Why? What are you going to-AH!"
Molly pressed all three bags of frozen food to his chest and tried unsuccessfully to hold back a smirk as his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he rested them on Molly's shoulders, taking quick shallow breaths in reaction to the sudden cold. Molly's insides fluttered at the feeling of his hands on her shoulders, gripping tightly as she continued to hold pressure on the bags.
"I suppose I deserved that," he groaned through clenched teeth, closing his eyes tightly.
"You kind of did," she smiled. She continued to hold the bags as his breathing slowly returned to normal and he relaxed into a less tense position. They maintained this position for another twenty minutes before she broke the silence.
"That should do it. Just bandage you up then," he raised his hands off her shoulders as she removed the now less-than-frozen vegetables and tossed them back into the freezer, reaching for the roll of bandages. Slowly she coiled the bandages around his chest, giving him support but careful to not make it too tight.
"Better?" She avoided his eyes as she fastened the bandages into place.
He mumbled what seemed to be an affirmation as she began cleaning up the space, but as she made to walk away, he grasped her wrist. Her heart did a little dance in her chest as she looked up to his face.
"Molly, I-thank you."
"No problem. Just take it easy-you'll heal in a few days."
"No. Thank you for-everything."
She looked away quickly and stuttered something that was intended to be "You're welcome" as she ran to put away the remaining supplies. When she returned, her heart-rate barely back to normal, he was sitting on the couch, having not replaced the hoodie, watching the news on the television.
"Sherlock, would you like to take my bed? I can sleep on the couch."
"I won't be sleeping," he said, not looking away from the screen.
"You need rest. There's nothing you can do right now."
He looked up at her derisively. "Doctor's orders?" the hint of a smirk on the corners of his mouth.
Molly rolled her eyes and turned toward her bedroom. "Goodnight, Sherlock."
"Goodnight, Molly Hooper."
Molly entered her bedroom and folded down the covers, eager to get some sleep. Just before she climbed into bed, she remembered Sherlock's most likely uncomfortable wardrobe. She walked back out to the living room.
"Sherlock, would you like something to sleep in? I think I have a pair of my brother's-" She stopped suddenly when she saw him curled in a ball on the couch, remote still in hand, sound asleep. She removed an afghan from the arm of the sofa and covered his sleeping form. She had never seen his face so…quiet. She took a minute to watch his slow, steady breathing before walking back to her bedroom.
"Sleep tight," she said quietly before closing her bedroom door.