"Aside from slight dehydration, Colin is fairly unsca-" John stopped in his tracks, his face reflecting first surprise and then pleasure at the sight that greeted him. He had been perusing the chart he was holding while on his way to the waiting room, where he assumed that Sherlock and Molly would be seated, anxious to hear an update on the boy's status.
He hastily took out his mobile and took a picture.
Molly, John could tell, was fast asleep, her head caught in the crook between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, mouth slightly parted and forming a small "o", Sherlock's scarf around her neck partially obscuring her face. Her hands were caught in one of Sherlock's own, his other lightly gripping the shoulder where he'd wrapped his arm around her. His chin rested on her head just above her temple, his brows slightly creased.
John walked nearer and cleared his throat loudly.
Sherlock's eyes popped open, and he raised an eyebrow at him in question.
"I've finished the assessment. A nurse just accompanied Colin to the loo." John explained, raising the hand that held the chart.
Molly stirred and blinked up at Sherlock, then blushed profusely when she saw John. Gently disentangling from Sherlock, she straightened up, a hand rubbing her eyes. "How is he? I'm not sure how long he'd been standing in the cold when I'd found him."
John smiled at her reassuringly. "Just a little dehydrated, and undernourished. He's okay otherwise. Sergeant Aberforth says you're taking him home with you?" Molly nodded. "Then you'll need to sign for him. Come on, he's probably looking for you already."
Sherlock stood. "I'll take over the driving. By the way John's been repeatedly running his hand over his hair I'd say he'd be making a stop at Mary's." John nodded. "You might want to change into one of the spares you keep in the lockers, John, that one has some spatter from the man whose nose you broke this morning. I don't suppose Mary will be thrilled at the sight." Sherlock then turned to Molly. "Keys." He reached out a hand, palm up, and waited.
"You don't have to bother with the driving, Sherlock. You must be tired, but I can drop you off then head home." Molly protested, fiddling with her bag and worrying her plait.
An eyebrow quickly shot up the consulting detective's face, "Keys." was all he said, slightly shaking his open hand for emphasis.
Minding what John had said about Colin being undernourished, Molly took the time to purchase a sandwich and some juice for the boy. He managed to nibble half of it before promptly falling asleep in the backseat. Once they arrived at Molly's, Sherlock carried him out of the car and up the stairs into the flat.
Molly had decided to let the boy spend the night in Sherlock's old bedroom, the smaller one that he had used during the few months he'd stayed with her after the Fall, just across the hall from hers. Once he'd laid the boy down on the bed, Molly stripped Colin of his dirty clothes, and put one of her old shirts on him as well as socks for his feet. She then wrapped him in one of her spare blankets before tiptoeing out of the room, making sure to leave the door slightly ajar so that the hallway light can seep through.
Back in the living room, Molly turned to Sherlock, "Well, he's out, poor thing!" Suddenly self-conscious, Molly fidgeted; staring at her feet, both hands in her pockets. "Thanks for helping me out."
Sherlock, who had been checking his phone for messages, turned to look down at her. "John's back in Baker Street and says Wiggins has just arrived." He gave her a small smile before walking towards the door.
"Oh! Don't forget this." Molly untied his dark blue scarf from around her neck and followed him. She held it out, expecting him to take it.
Instead, Sherlock bent his knees and leaned in, and Molly had to reach out and wrap the scarf around his neck herself. She couldn't help a small giggle, and caught sight of a corner of Sherlock's lip lifting in amusement, his eyes shining in the dimly lit room.
"Molly?" Sherlock asked, as Molly began looping the scarf behind his neck.
"Hmm?" She asked, smiling, her eyes focused on their current task.
"Are we..." he cleared his throat, "in a relationship now?" he asked, carefully.
Taken aback, Molly's hands froze. She slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. A peculiar wish making itself known: If only I had a mind palace of my own. She wanted to preserve this view and be able to go back over it in complete detail whenever she wished. He was, quite simply, beautiful. The angles of his face were thrown in sharp relief in the dim lighting, his hair windswept; a stubborn curl straying over his right eyebrow. His bottom lip was partly caught between his teeth in his uncertainty, and his brows were furrowed as he waited for her to answer. When she looked into his eyes - I still can't decide what colour they are, she thought. - she saw worry, nerves, and a cautious hope. She caught her breath. Standing before her was someone who was somehow both different yet the same, and in that moment, she became certain.
"Yes." She whispered, "Yes, we are."
Molly barely paid any attention as she prepared for bed that night.
Girlfriend. Sherlock's girlfriend. And he's my boyfriend of course. My boyfriend. Sherlock.
Feeling like a giddy teenager, Molly jumped into bed, fiercely hugging one of her pillows, trying her best to suppress a squeal. I must look like an idiot. She grinned to herself, closing her eyes and trying to recall both the kiss at the A&E and their moment in her living room.
She abruptly sat up, feeling a bit guilty. There she was, happily recounting her day, when across the hall a little boy slept; who had spent the same one cold and frightened. But you've waited long enough for this. A part of her mind argued, you're allowed to celebrate a little. With that the grin returned, and she flopped back down on the mattress, burying her face into her pillow as her mind's eye brought back images from the day.
"Boyfriend." She mumbled happily, and she wondered whether she'd calm down enough to get some sleep.
She highly doubted it.
Unlike Molly, Sherlock had no trouble pulling up a vividly detailed memory from his mind palace, and along with each one came what he thought as inadequate simulations of the sensations he had experienced during the event. His lips seemed to recall some of the warmth from their kiss-their first, he realized, taking note of the date, place and time. The one at Christmas does not count. He thought, the memory of his unintended cruelty to her still made his stomach clench involuntarily. When he had decided to admit that he...felt...for Molly, he had also decided that he would go about it the same way he approached everything in his life: in a methodical yet relentless manner, not stopping until he got what he wanted.
He had taken it for granted that she liked him back. But Molly had been wary, and her words to him that night, during "the date", had revealed to him how much he had been lacking. It was then that he hit upon the idea of courting her. He would prove that he's a suitable choice, even if it was largely unfamiliar territory for him.
The incident with Lestrade at the morgue had shaken him. The thought that Molly might have eyes for someone other Sherlock's had roused an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation in his chest, and he had reacted poorly. In the end, it was Molly's patience and uncanny perceptiveness that had saved him from himself...again.
Today he had kissed her -really kissed her- for the first time. He was never one for sentiment or physical intimacy, but the thought that by accepting him, Molly had granted him the promise of something more made his heart race in anticipation. This was not his area, but he trusted Molly, and she had explicitly informed him of her trust in him. If he were to venture into the unpredictable world that sentiment opened up, he could not imagine taking anyone else with him.
The taxi slowed to a halt, and Sherlock reluctantly pulled himself out of his thoughts. He paid the cabbie, a sizeable tip included, before hurriedly exiting. He strode into the flat and up the stairs to 221B, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the peg by the door before walking over to his customary seat in front of the fireplace.
"Speak." He waved his hand over to Wiggins absently and before dropping to the seat cushions.
Wiggins was a boy of about fifteen, with shaggy brown hair hidden under a dirty green beanie. He had on a couple of threadbare scarves, an old ratty jacket over layers of shirts, oversized trousers and brown trainers. He had been sitting on the couch sipping tea John had handed him. When Sherlock entered the room he carefully put the cup down and stood at attention. "We 'aven't 'eard a thing 'bout a mum. But there's a bloke down Richmond Park's says 'e's lost 'is nephew. Name's Phil." He coughed, "Should we bring 'im round?" he asked, handing a note to Sherlock which contained a detailed description of the man along with his exact location.
"No." Sherlock answered simply. "I'll find him myself tomorrow. You make sure he stays put." He glimpsed at the note, nodded, and handed a folded bill to the boy. "Here. Finish your tea, and then you may leave."
John, who had been sitting in the kitchen during all this, spoke up, "And thank you, Wiggins." He added, glaring at his flatmate. Sherlock ignored him, his hands on his knees, staring at the fire.
Once the boy had gone, Sherlock stood up and walked over to the window. "John."
"Yes?" The former army doctor was busy putting away the dishes in the sink.
"Your phone."
Used to his friend's laziness and too tired to argue, John sighed, wiped his hand on a paper napkin, and walked towards the fireplace mantle where his mobile was propped next to the skull. "What do you need it for?" he remembered to ask, his hand with the phone in it hovering over Sherlock's waiting palm.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The photograph."
"What photograph?"
An exasperated sigh. "The one you took at the hospital."
Not entirely surprised, John held his phone back. "What? I wasn't going to show it to anyone."
Scowling, Sherlock plucked the phone from his hands. At John's protest, he spoke, irritated "I'm not going to delete it. And you've already shown Mary."
"What do you need it for, then?" John asked, a hand rubbing the nape of his neck.
Sherlock took his own phone out and merely hummed in response. After fiddling with both phones a bit, he threw back John's and turned, walking towards his bedroom.
"You realize you've still got your scarf on?" John called out to his friend's retreating back.
The bedroom door slammed and John, puzzled, looked at his phone, hoping Sherlock hadn't deleted the photo. When he pushed the home button however, the screen lit up and showed a notification that made him chuckle and shake his head in disbelief:
1 of 1 file/s successfully sent.
Author's Note: I'll stop saying how I'll only upload just one more chapter for the week, etc. The bug's bitten me and I can't really stop updating. So I'm just going to keep at it while it lasts. ^_^
Thanks again to MizJoely for pointing out the renegade 'e' in the last chapter! What keen eyes you have! Also, a big thanks to everyone who bothered to send me PMs as well as those who've left reviews. Constructive criticism is always, ALWAYS welcome.
Also, because I intend to keep writing fan fiction for as long as I can, I created a tumblr blog where I intend to keep links to my stories and upload some sketches-which are nothing like the geniuses on tumblr come up with, but I sometimes find that taking a scene I have in my head and drawing it out helps me to better describe it. It's liberiadsomnia-dot-tumblr-dot-com. It'll be great if you can visit! (There are only a couple of posts on there right now, though, because I haven't had the time to upload all my sketches.)
I hope you're enjoying the story so far. See you in Chapter 8!
Ta,
~Liberi Ad Somnia