Sherlock fought back panic as he realized, immediately, that Anthea was in shock.
"Molly, can you get her some water, please?" He asked. "Theres a pitcher and some cups in the room."
Molly didn't question Sherlock, just did as he asked. She realized as she poured the water, she, again, heard the flutter of his belstaff and was surprised to find that he'd merely draped it over Anthea when she returned.
"They— they—um— give blankets to people in shock, so I—" Molly brushed him off with a nod and offered the cup to Anthea. For a moment, nothing seemed to register with the woman, but she was soon sipping at the water and taking deep breaths.
"How are you feeling?" Molly asked, placing the back of her hand against Anthea's forehead.
"I'm ok now, thank you." Her voice was polite but suggested some frustration with being fussed over. After all, Molly understood that. Anthea was in a mans job, she was probably use to not showing any form of weakness, even when it was understandable.
"What happened?" Sherlocks tone was calm.
"I'm not sure, but everything started going off… I should have… I guess I… I don't know…"Anthea sighed, rubbing her face. Cautiously, Sherlock laid his hand on her shoulder.
"Its— its alright, Anthea. It'll be alright."
"You don't know that!" She pushed away his hand and stood up. "You know as well as I do that this could go either way and it does no good to blow smoke up my ass, it'll just make it worse if…." She stopped and waved the thought away. "Just don't, Sherlock. Just don't." Anthea turned and, again, her exit was accompanied by the clicks of her heels echoing off the walls.
"Sherlock—" Molly whispered, laying her hand on his shoulder blade. "Are you alright? Do you want to talk?"
"No." Without another word, he retrieved his belstaff from the floor and left her in the hall. A heavy sigh left her lips as she pinched the bridge off her nose, contemplating her next move.
—
He wasn't sure how far he'd walked, and he was certain it wouldn't feel far enough but would do as he slipped into an alley and lit the cigarette.
The inhale he took was a bit heavy and nearly gave him a headache, but he desperately missed smoking and refused to not enjoy the odd one he chose to partake in.
Sherlock wasn't good at this. He much preferred it when he didn't feel. When things got emotionally complicated, he always ended in dark alleys, although, he was usually doing something harder and more taboo then simple tobacco.
Before long, he found he finished the first one and the rain finally registered with him.
It was cold and insistent he pulled up his collar and hunched himself as he pulled out a second cig and began fondle for his lighter. It soon dawned on him he'd dropped it and found it laying in a puddle beside.
He cursed for a moment, examining it. It wasn't destroyed, but it was too damp to work at the moment.
He was about to give up when a flick and a glow bought his attention and he leaned into the flame of the lighter in Mollys and hid beneath the shelter of her umbrella.
"If you're going to give yourself cancer," she said, "you could at least try to avoid a cold in the process."