Johnny Blue-Eyes

Author's Note: My fellow Americans, for this chapter you need to know that in British English, "Knocked up" can mean woke someone up by knocking.

Chapter 6: Some days you get the bear. . .

When Molly woke in the middle of the night, she rolled over and looked for her bedside clock. Not there. Where the hell. . .? Oh, right. Sherlock Holmes had locked himself in her bedroom, so she was in the spare room with the uncomfortable futon and no clock. She rolled her neck to work out the kinks while she fumbled for her phone on the nightstand. It was after one a.m. Something had awakened her, but now she wasn't sure what. Lying back down on the bed, she held very still and listened. Her flat was doing its usual nightly serenade of squeaks and bumps. It had kept her up nights when she first moved in, jumping at every sound, but now she had learned to ignore it and usually slept right through.

Wait, what was that sound? A thump, and then a shout. Was that a neighbor? No, it was coming from the direction of her bedroom. What on earth was Sherlock doing in there? She listened some more, and soon heard another garbled shout. This one sounded like "Daddy!" She must be imagining things.

Curious, Molly got out of bed and crept quietly down the hall toward the source of the noises. On her way past the sitting room, she saw Sherlock's phone was still on the coffee table, so she picked it up to return to him. A glance at the screen showed several more text message alerts from John and D.I. Lestrade, and even one from Sally Donovan (at least, that's who she assumed the name "Sergeant Yobbo" referred to).

When she got closer to her bedroom, she heard another shout, and then what almost sounded like Sherlock moaning in pain. Was he hurt? Or maybe having a nightmare? She hesitated outside the door for a minute, listening to the muffled cries. After another loud thumping sound, she tried the doorknob. Still locked.

"Sherlock?" There was no answer, so she knocked on the door. "Sherlock?!"

He cried out again, something that sounded like "No, don't!"

"Sherlock! Wake up!"

She heard a series of thumps, a grunt, and a muttered curse, then silence. After a long moment, she said more quietly, "Sherlock? Are you all right?"

There was a short delay before he answered. "I'm fine. Go away."

"What's going on?"

"You tell me; you're the one who knocked me up in the middle of the night."

"You were having a nightmare."

"No I wasn't," he responded crossly.

"Yes, you were. Open the door."

"No."

"You left your phone out here."

"I know. The buzzing was annoying."

"Lestrade texted you."

Silence greeted this bit of information. "Sherlock?"

"You shouldn't read other people's texts."

"I didn't do it on purpose. You left the phone on the coffee table."

"It was face down."

"Sherlock, he says you're not in trouble. You should talk to him."

"I know I'm not in trouble. I just don't want to talk to him. Now go away."

Molly stood still in front of the door, considering. Maybe she had imagined it and he was fine. Anyway, whatever he was dreaming about, it was over now. Best just to go back to. . . HEY!

While she had been trying to decide what to do, the door had cracked open, Sherlock's hand had snaked out and snatched the phone from her grasp. Then he closed and locked the door again before she even had time to react. Shit.

In the morning, Molly woke with her hair half out of her ponytail and a massive crick in her neck. She quickly fixed the former as best she could using her fingers for a comb, but the latter would require a hot bath to work out, which was out of the question as long as Sherlock Holmes and his lockpicks were in her flat.

The flat was very quiet, so Sherlock must still be asleep. He wasn't much of an early riser. In fact, judging by the nights he had crashed at her place while he was dead, early mornings appeared to be the only time he wasn't a whirlwind of noise and energy, which was fine by Molly. She liked quiet mornings.

She pulled on a hoodie over her vest and headed toward the kitchen, humming to herself. As she passed the sofa, she was startled by Sherlock's voice. "Stop that bloody noise."

She looked over the back of the sofa and discovered Sherlock curled up with her laptop, dressed in a pair of Tom's striped pyjamas that he had found God only knows where, the snuggie wrapped securely around himself. "Good grief, Sherlock. You surprised me."

"Why? Didn't you remember I stayed here last night?"

"Yes, of course I did. I just didn't—never mind," she interrupted herself. "I'm going to make coffee. Do you want some?"

The only response was a grunt, which she took as a yes, so she headed on to the kitchen and started the coffee maker, then pulled out pans to make scrambled eggs. A few minutes later she turned around and found him sitting at the table in the exact same position he had been in the previous night. Good grief, she needed to get him a bell or something, because he was far too stealthy for her sanity.

Molly poured him a cup of coffee, added far too much sugar (which was apparently exactly how he like it—yuck) and was about to set it down in front of him when she noticed something—he had a black eye.

"What happened to your eye?"

He took the coffee from her hand and said mildly, "You gave it to me."

"What?! I most certainly did not!"

He smirked. "Yes, I got it from falling out of bed when you knocked me up last night."

"You were having a nightmare."

"No, I wasn't." Then he took a drink of his coffee, set it down on the table, and went back to whatever he was doing on her laptop. She hoped it wasn't porn. What sort of porn would Sherlock Holmes like, anyway? Probably necrophilia. Shudder.

She fried up some eggs with bacon and potatoes, and ate hers in silence while he picked at his with his eyes glued to the screen. Back before he was dead, when she had pictured having Sherlock stay over in her flat, this was not exactly what she had had in mind. Now, however, she was used to it. Sherlock could be an excellent conversationalist when he wanted to, but it had to be on his terms. She had learned that if she interrupted him when he was in a funk, or when he was thinking, she did so at her own peril.

When she was done eating, Molly cleared her dishes and then stood with her arms folded, scowling at Sherlock, who had eaten only a few bites. He had pushed his plate aside, next to his dishes from the previous night, and was staring at the laptop while ignoring her completely.

"Sherlock," she said finally. "Are you staying another night?"

"I don't know," he said without looking up.

"Well, when do you think you might know?"

"What does it matter?"

"I just want to know if I should change the sheets or not."

"Change them if you want, I don't care. Why would I care?"

Molly sighed. This was the way every conversation with him went, but she was mostly angry with herself for putting up with it. She knew she needed to stand up to him, but something about him turned her into a spineless wreck every time, which he took full advantage of.

When Sherlock still didn't look up from the screen, Molly shook her head and headed into her bedroom. She hoped he didn't plan on staying here the whole day. She had planned to spend her day off tidying up and doing some projects, which was difficult to do when Sherlock was underfoot.

First she stripped the sheets off the bed. She considered leaving them, because they smelled like him, but decided that was a bit not good. Besides, mixed in with the light scent of his deodorant and soap was a sour hint of sweat and cigarette smoke. He wasn't smoking in her bedroom, was he?

As she was bundling the sheets and getting ready to take them to the wash, she noticed something odd: her antique Merrythought teddy bear was missing from her bedside table. Now where could it have gone? She had gotten it only a few weeks ago, the only item from her grandmother's estate that had come to her, and it was meant to be sitting on the nightstand.

Frowning, Molly tossed the sheets into the corner and started looking around the room. There were not many places in her small bedroom the bear could have gone. Not in the closet. Not in any of the drawers in her dresser or nightstand. Not behind any of the pieces of furniture.

She got down on her knees and looked under the bed. There it was, half under the mattress with its back to her. Sherlock must have put it there, but why would he do that? Did he think it was too juvenile for her? Well, it was her bedroom, and she could do with it whatever she liked, Sherlock Holmes be damned.

She dragged the bear out from under the bed and started brushing off the dust and straightening out the little beefeater uniform. When she turned it around, she discovered a gaping hole where the right eye should have been.

Molly gasped in horror. Sherlock had pulled the bear's eye out? Why on earth would he have done that?! Her horror quickly turned to fury. How dare he! He didn't get to destroy her things! She stomped off to the kitchen to confront him.

When Molly entered the kitchen with the damaged bear clutched in her fist, Sherlock abruptly stood up, almost knocking the chair over, and took a step back, eyes wide.

"Why did you vandalize my bear?" Molly choked out, nearly in tears, holding the bear out and shaking it slightly.

He backed up further until his back hit the cupboards; one hand gripped the edge of the counter, the other was held out in front of him as if pushing her back.

"Sherlock, why did you do that?"

He swallowed hard and said in a shaky voice, "It wath thtaring at me."

"What?!"

He didn't respond, just stared at the bear with wide, panicked eyes. His breathing was fast and loud in the small room.

And then, just as suddenly his breathing slowed and his hand dropped. He blinked a couple of times, then said in his normal voice, "What? I didn't do anything to your bear."

"What? I don't—what-?" She held out the bear again, and this time he let out a strangled shout.

"THTOP! I don't want to! It hurth!" He was practically climbing up on top of the counter to get away from her. Molly looked back and forth between the bear and Sherlock in confusion.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?!" She narrowed her eyes at him. Could he be on something? Was he taking drugs at her flat?! And if not, what on earth was making him act so oddly? He seemed to be afraid of her teddy bear.

"I'll tell my daddy!"

"Tell him what?" she said in a reasonable tone, but her mind was racing. This sounded like some sort of—post-traumatic flashback. She remembered her brother Eric having them after Afghanistan. They would just be walking down the street and suddenly Eric would be crouching behind rubbish bins screaming for everyone to get down. But what could Sherlock have flashbacks about? Something that happened while he was dead? She knew he had been hurt, although he had never talked about it. Why would it be triggered by a teddy bear?

"You're a vampire! You don't love me!"

"Sherlock, you aren't making any sense." She took a step toward him, hand out placatingly, and he suddenly bolted, shoved his way past her and ran, barefoot and still in his pyjamas, out the door, leaving her staring after him in bewilderment.

After a moment of standing in shock, she dropped the bear, grabbed her phone, and ran out after him. "Sherlock!" But he was too fast. By the time she got to the bottom of the stairs, he was already down the street and rounding the corner of the building out of sight. SHIT!

With shaking fingers, Molly dialed John's number and waited while it rang. Two times. Three. How early was it anyway?

John finally picked up on the fourth ring, his voice thick with sleep. "Molly? What's up?"

"Oh, John! Sherlock stayed with me last night—well, at my flat—and this morning he—I don't even know how to explain it—he had some sort of mental breakdown, like a flashback or something—and I don't know where he went, he just—he saw my teddy bear-"

"Hang on, Molly. Slow down. Do you think he's on something?"

"No, no I don't think so. He got agitated and started babbling about vampires and ran out."

"Vampires?"

"Yes, and he's barefoot and doesn't even have his phone or wallet or anything. I don't think he could get far."

"Ok, Molly, I'm on my way. Stay put in case he comes back."

Molly quickly replaced her pyjamas with a pair of tracksuit bottoms and then sat on her steps tapping her phone anxiously against her knee and watching down the street in the direction Sherlock had gone, hoping against hope that he would come back the same way unharmed.

A/N: Hey-o, won't you please write me a quick review? They make my day, really! (I mean it. It's probably unhealthy how excited I get over reviews. . .)