I Am Human

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Sherlock sat upright in his bed with a thermometer hanging out from the corner of his mouth. Dark bags were in stark contrast to him sporting sallow, and sickly pale skin. Seemed as if he had aged significantly the past two weeks. He had tried to make sense of what had happened on the days he was conscious, only shortly before drifting off to sleep, and having Molly worry—again.

Beeping interrupted Sherlock's personal calm, when abruptly his wife had materialized beside him and scared the poor detective senseless. He could feel his heart pound against his ribs as he tried to keep himself still. There wasn't much he could do in his vegetable like state. He was too tired to talk, too tired to move, but not too tired to stare at Molly casually.

Apparently, his doting wife had gotten her hair colored the past week. Or perhaps Molly had always had ginger hair and Sherlock had never noticed until he inexplicably stared the female down with his eyebrows furrowed almost as if he were furious. What was going on with him? Being thrown off his groove by the curiosity of hair color and what not. Did it really matter? Was he that bored?

"I made chicken soup... again." Molly's voice trailed off while she sat beside the ailing man, and blew steam from the bowl of soup, trying to cool what she could of it.

How Sherlock ever managed to move his mouth was beyond him. His jaw felt as if it was forcibly being pried open. It felt as if his jaw was rusty and out of balance. It was a throbbing sort of pain but not unbearable.

"I hope it's okay," Molly blew the steam from the soup once again, and tested it against her lips—licking whatever liquid was there and slowly placing the spoon between her husband's mouth, soon after.

Something was different today. Sherlock could just not keep his eyes off his wife. There was just a sort of invisible glue sticking his eyes on one spot. And that one spot was Molly. Perhaps he could now check off 'Staring At Molly' as his new past time. Maybe the answer lie in how she wore the word 'simple' quite well. It was pestering him. This need to just stare the woman down till she either told him to stop (in which he would ignore by continuing on staring) or if she ran away.

Sherlock just could not get his bloody eyes off her for some cursed reason! He must have still been incurably sick for nothing had his attention this long! At least not a woman!

"Molly," Sherlock's voice was husky and strained. Molly's eyes widened and she pulled back to place the bowl onto the side table next to the bed. Her hands were warm and comforting once they rested against her husband's forehead and cheek. Sherlock's eyes fluttered and he groaned softly; taking too much joy and pleasure with the physical contact.

"What is it, Sherlock?" she whispered.

"You're..." he wheezed. "Really..." he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply; words were hard to describe his feeling suddenly. "Beautiful."

Well, that was random and strange. And so not... like him.

Months ago... Molly would have blushed at the words. However, at this current point in time. Molly couldn't believe in them. He was sick. He was still on medication. He didn't know what he was saying. Yeah! That's got to be it!

The Sherlock she knew would never say such a thing... at least not like this...

So, against her better judgment and to the chagrin of her heart; she had to shrug the resurfacing emotions and hope off. Don't come back. Molly swallowed away her own selfish thoughts and desires and had to focus on her ailing husband—who probably lost a few marbles from the medications.

"U-uh... T-thank you?" the blush was eminent as she replied weakly.

Molly was quick to smile shyly, lower her eyes, and twiddle her thumbs in thought of what to do next. He needed to finish his soup. Sherlock had lost quite a bit of weight and was probably only awake long enough for a few spoonfuls of whatever his stomach would settle for. Did he remember any of the rest of his meals when he was awake? Did he remember vomiting up the tomato soup after the couple spoonfuls and passing out the next moment? Did he remember any of the embarrassing things he had done while conscious?

There was a uncomfortable silence looming closely over them, that was until Sherlock rested further against the pillows, and looked at Molly with a sort of forlorn wanting. She misread this as him upset at having a need not met and was quick to say, "What is it, Sherlock? Do you need something?"

Molly was caught off guard now. His long, cold fingers were pressing against her cheek, trailing up to her temple and resting there momentarily. A copper tinged strand was brushed away and that forlorn look was now replaced with something almost serious—just too serious for the both of them.

"You."