A/N: I would normally never update so quickly, but I can't keep from writing. At least I'm maintaining a bit of control, posting only when I've got the next chapter finished. Thank you to everyone that has reviewed and sent me message, I really appreciate it! Bless MizJoely for her editing magic!
Trigger Warnings: Disturbing imagery, imagined sexual violence (sort of).
Disclaimer: Bards will write odes honoring all the shit I don't own.
Molly Hooper is the first girl to be in Sherlock's bed and as much as it shouldn't mean anything – especially considering the circumstances of her arrival to said bed – it's all he can think of. If his brain were as big as his mind, his head would form a new center of gravity and the galaxy would spin around Sherlock Holmes; his IQ quite literally tests off the charts and he once taught himself Mandarin Chinese in a few days simply from boredom and lack of anything more interesting being on hand. All things considered, the presence of a mere female sleeping upon an object built and kept for the sole purpose of humans sleeping on it shouldn't rocket him into stupidity. But it does, it absolutely does, and there's nothing else he can focus on. Nothing is more interesting than the cinnamon hair spread across his pillow or the bruised little face that's made lax and peaceful in slumber.
To another boy the pattern of bruising would be meaningless, but to Sherlock it is a diagram of Helen Hooper's latest abuse. ('Latest' as he has no doubt in his mind that this has been going on for years, that his Molly has suffered without aid or help beyond the meager sheltering of her cousins.) First was a blow brought down hard and fast from overhead, openhanded, a slap so vicious that the left side of Molly's face has become a livid handprint of purple, black, and blue; as the days pass the colors will become more lurid and ugly, a darker testimony to this girl's pain. Her upper lip is swollen, undoubtedly split inside from being forced against sharp teeth, a result of the second blow. Blood is present in the ear canal, and he fears her eardrum was ruptured by the third assault which came from the side with a vicious force and was centered deliberately over her ear. Once the university clinic is opened he'll take her there, even if he has to carry her over his shoulder to do so. If it is ruptured infection could set in, and Molly shouldn't have to endure any more pain than she already has.
Without meaning to, without permission, Sherlock's arm lifts. He trails a finger, light as a faint winter breeze, across Molly's swollen jaw. He's read more than his share of literature on A/B/O biology, originally planning to use his knowledge to resist or circumvent any primal urges that might come upon him, but now the knowledge has transformed into a guide to understanding his current situation. Or at least attempting to understand his draw to and feelings towards Molly Hooper, though he's rather baffled by the logical facts not truly helping him in this situation at all; like the murky waters of social interaction and acceptably, a romantic relationship is impervious to logic.
Alphas are programmed to protect and care for their Omegas, fighting and providing for them to prove they remain a worthy mate and potential father of offspring and Sherlock understands this down to the molecular level. What he cannot comprehend is the vast, choking rage that suffuses him with the desire to tear right back to Cheswick and beat her mother literally to death. He imagines hot blood on his face and hands, spraying in his mouth, the sound of breaking bones and wet, gurgling cries as he shatters her face; he thinks of coming home to Molly after, of kissing her deep so she can taste the blood, too, of fisting his hands in her hair and knotting her until she screams and thanks him for protecting her. In his mind she offers her neck up, a willing submission, and when he sinks his teeth into her flesh she digs her nails into his back and shoulders, seeking blood and crying, "I'm yours, I'm yours; you own me!"
Breaking from his fevered imagination, Sherlock balls his hands into tight fists and stares firmly into a middle distance. If he were younger or less disciplined, there would be horrified tears in his eyes. He's no animal, no mindless beast, but he thinks of killing Helen Hooper and fucking her daughter after and becomes so aroused it's difficult to find a reason not to act on his impulses. There are always stories on the news and in papers of Alpha's assaulting anyone that dares harm his or her Bondmate, and the laws are more lenient in those cases. Would you punish a lion for being a lion, lawyers argue, and juries and judges have said no, of course not; clearly they aren't in control of themselves during those attacks.
Sherlock is better than any of that, however. He's stronger.
Deep breaths, then: center, find focus, relax relax relax…
The phone rings, the shrill jangling jarring Sherlock from his mind palace. In truth, he's grateful for the distraction. He's quick to jump up and cross his small bedroom, answering even as he turns back to Molly, checking to make sure the loud noise didn't disturb her. "Hello?"
"Has she made you a man yet?" Erasmus asks with far too much cheer than the situation calls for.
Heaving an exasperated sigh, Sherlock simultaneously rubs his forehead, as though he can massage away the developing headache, while grinding his teeth together, making pain shoot from his overly tensed jaw to his throbbing temples. "Do you truly believe now is the appropriate time for intercourse? You're always going on about how I need to learn and respect the emotional reactions of the people around me, and I'm going out on a limb and saying being beaten by her mother and forced to run away with her Alpha – who she's spent no more than seven hours with and the bulk of them sleeping – is the wrong time to attempt to… 'get off' with her." His lips curl in distaste of the slang, though his stomach leaps, forgoing disgust to focus on excitement and want.
"Jesus, Lock, I was kidding." Erasmus has this tone of voice that's somewhere between amused exasperation and a confusion that clearly relays his disbelief at his brother's actions. He wields it now and to great effect, making Sherlock scowl and shift uncomfortably.
"How many times must I ask you not to –"
"You don't like Lock? Fine, Willy it is."
"No, absolutely not –"
"Ol' Willy Holmes, genius virgin with a stick up his arse. Willy Will William!"
Damn but he wishes he'd been an only child. "Lock is acceptable."
"I'm nearly to your door. I don't want to mess with picking the lock, just open it."
"What? Why? What are you doing here?" That's not panic in his voice, it's only forceful curiosity and outrage.
"The police are on their way, and Mum and Dad thought it would be best if someone was there to keep you from doing something stupid."
Immediately his gaze turns to Molly, who hasn't so much as stirred. No snores escape her sinuses; instead she puffs on most exhales, a soft noise. Every once in a while her nose or extremities twitch, quick little motions signifying REM sleep. There's a fire in his stomach and a certainty that if God Himself decided to stir from his hallowed sky palace, descending on the earth to demand Molly Hooper be returned to her family, Sherlock would fight to the bloody end to see her remain with him. It's not a purely selfish decision, though there are certainly selfish motivations; instead the fierceness of it rests on the foundation of her safety.
He won't let her come to harm, not so long as he can prevent it from occurring.
Over the line Erasmus sighs, and before Sherlock can comprehend the sounds coming to him over the electronic line there's a click and the sound of a door opening, which echoes out from the front of his suite. "I thought you said you didn't want to pick the lock?"
"Yeah, well, I had to." The university flat isn't much; two bedrooms, a tiny bathroom, and a space that is the kitchen, dining room, and living room all at once. He'd rather be in a flat off campus and alone, but his parents insisted he attempt to mingle with the common masses, thinking it might do his social graces some good. His roommate, whose name Sherlock can rarely be bothered to remember, spends much of his time bunking over with other people to escape the madness and mood swings.
The bedroom door opens and Erasmus steps in, shoving his bulky mobile phone into the messenger bag strapped across his body. He's tall and narrow, like Sherlock, with bright blue eyes and a plump mouth prone to excessive expression. His hair falls in soft brown curls about his ears and below his collar, almost long enough to be pulled back in a short tail. It's easy to ready his body language, that he's forcing his muscles into laxness and is pouring lead into his feet to prevent him from pacing, a nervous habit that drives Mycroft utterly bonkers, and it's all to keep Sherlock calm.
His gaze flickers about the room, reading the details of his younger brother's day-to-day life from the clutter on his desk and the little table beside his bed, his overly packed bookshelf and the stacks of books on the floor. A half-finished experiment takes up space on the window ledge. After seconds of stalling, involving peering at the ceiling as though the cobwebs in the corners may hold some intimate secrets, he turns his eyes to the bed… and the girl between its sheets. Sherlock watches muscles jump in his brother's jaw, neck, and shoulders, catches the emotion that boils in Erasmus' eyes before he studiously blankets it.
"It's worse up close," he comments quietly, lips twitching. "Mrs. Hooper really did a number on the girl."
Responding is impossible, because it's literally all Sherlock can do to keep from snarling in the manner of an enraged animal, an action he will not indulge so long as he can stifle it.
"She's the one that called Scotland Yard and reported Molly kidnapped. Mr. Hooper was unwilling to see it done, but didn't put up much of a fight. Patrick Hooper, the cousin that helped you last night, his parents and siblings have formed a human wall around him, so to speak. Mrs. Hooper seemed intent on clawing his eyes out early this morning, but the second Mrs. Hooper, Pat's mother, she's a fighter. Didn't take too kindly to the suggestion that Molly and Pat are… kissing cousins, you know?" Quirking his eyebrow, Erasmus gives Sherlock a hard sort of look, as though commanding his younger brother to comprehend without an explanation. It takes a moment longer than it should, but understanding comes to Sherlock as the sun pulling above the horizon at dawn.
"She accused Molly and Pat of incest?" he surmises. There is a curious sort of coldness washing through him, chilling and honing his anger into something more deadly than it was before.
"Seems like she confronted Molly about it, tried to tell Pat's mum that Molly didn't deny it, that she was proud of it; Patrick came out swinging. Literally, he got out between some older siblings and charged Mrs. Hooper. If his dad hadn't caught him…" Erasmus shrugs. "Can't blame the kid, I'd have done the same thing. God, Lock, can you imagine? Mum and Dad can be annoying, yeah, but her parents are fucking insane. 'Least her dad's not as bad as his missus."
"He's worse," Sherlock harshly condemns. "He doesn't protect Molly from that woman. At least she has something of an excuse."
"Yeah, I read the files Mikey provided. Seems convenient, though, doesn't it? Traumatic brain injury can cause a complete change of character, but I don't know… it seems a bit much, right? I can buy that the accident made her legitimately insane or reversed her personality to the point of absolute cruelty, but why does it only seem to be directed at Molly? Anyone that defends or helps her or gets in the way of Mrs. Hooper's abuse of her, they get attacked – like how Pat was accused of sleeping with her, right? But it all centers on Molly."
Erasmus brings up a valid point, one that Sherlock hadn't missed. "We need more data," he tells his brother with no small amount of frustration. Raking a hand through his hair, he's about to present a possible hypothesis when Molly begins to shift restlessly; her breathing increases and her limbs begin to twitch and jerk, signifying the presence of a troubling dream. Sherlock wouldn't doubt that she's suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and is unsurprised by this turn of events. From the short conversation he'd held with Pat Hooper before sneaking into Molly's house, it was easy to surmise that the abuse inflicted on Molly has been far more severe than he'd first expected and will have undoubtedly left scars on the girl.
Shoving past Erasmus, Sherlock hurries to the bed. He crouches beside it, taking Molly's hand in one of his own while smoothing the hair away from her injured face. They aren't yet Bonded but his presence will soothe her, his unique scent registering in her unconscious mind and (hopefully) evoking feelings of security and pleasure. Without warning emotion spears through Sherlock with all the force of a bolt from a crossbow, shattering his ribs and piercing vital organs as he realizes that while so many others have accused him of not having a heart, they were so very wrong. It was only that it has never been carried inside his body, but was hidden under the fragile skin and light bones of this girl, tucked deep inside where none could find or do him harm… until now.
This realization is as terrifying as it is humbling, and Sherlock can't keep from trembling. Carefully he leans down, pressing his mouth to the corner of her lips to taste her breath and her skin, seeking reassurance that she's with him and safe. It's a blessing that Erasmus is watching, as it is only this knowledge that keeps Sherlock from shucking his clothing and crawling onto the bed with Molly, from tearing her clothing off and wrapping himself around her. It's not a sexual urge – or not entirely so – but a need to feel skin-on-skin, a desire for closeness that Sherlock has never experienced before.
Molly begins to wake, her breathing changing and the movements of her limbs slowing. This close, Sherlock's keen ears can pick up the faint thud of her heartbeat behind her ribs, or is that only wishful thinking? She presses towards him, curling towards the warmth of a body and the scent of her Alpha, her hand taking a firm grasp on his. "Sherlock?" she murmurs as she wakes, her eyes not yet open. The sound of his name from her sleepy lips strikes him with the force of a lightning bolt.
"Good morning," he quietly responds, aware of each small nuance of her body. Her eyes open, the corners crinkling sweetly as she almost smiles before the pain from her bruises asserts it's self. She winces, one hand lifting up to gingerly brush against the side of her face and mouth, judging the injuries for herself. Sherlock catches her hand, keeping her from causing further pain. "Don't touch, you'll make it worse."
"Is it very bad?" Her speech is thick, and he wonders if her jaw was injured, dislocated or fractured. The thought brings the anger rushing back, but he forces gentleness into his motions as he runs a fingertip over the shell of her ear. He doesn't miss Molly shiver or the flash of surprise in her eyes, either.
"It's not very good," he admits.
A hard knock rattles the door to the suite. A policeman loudly demands through the door, "Metropolitan Police, open up."
"Hell, they got here quick," Erasmus notes.
"Who –" Molly starts to ask; she appears quite confused and rather scared, pulling the heavy comforter to her chin as though she'd like very much to hide. It seems that fear has caused her tongue to stick to the roof of her mouth, not allowing her to complete the thought.
Sherlock shoots Erasmus a dark look. "That's my brother, Erasmus. Your mother called the police, and we've got to answer the door. But don't worry, alright? I'm not going to let you take you back."
Her fingers press into the spaces between his own seeking comfort and safety. Sherlock allows it, rather shocked by how pleased he is with Molly's instinctive need for closeness. He hasn't ever cared for such things before, but then again, it was never her instigating physical contact.
"Hate to break up the love fest, but…" Shrugging as the police pound on the door once more, repeating his earlier words but twice as loudly, Erasmus jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll answer that. Don't take too long, Molly, they're going to want to see you." He disappears through the doorway, his boots heavy and loud on cheap linoleum.
Their eyes meet, and a silent communication is had. On an instinctual level Sherlock knows that Molly needs strength and he wordlessly offers it, mouth twisting into a thin but encouraging smile even as he squeezes her fingers. There is a subtle loosening of her muscles that signifies not only her understanding but her acceptance, though she's by no means set entirely at ease. Only a very stupid person would be carefree and unconcerned in this moment, and Molly is undoubtedly one of the more clever persons in the world. Not as clever as Sherlock, but then again, who is? Bright enough to almost keep up with him, to hopefully keep him interested and engaged.
"Your brother's harboring a minor," a man is not quite shouting in the front room. "If Mr. and Mrs. Hooper press charges, he can be put up for kidnapping, you get that? Now where the hell is Molly?"
The girl in question squints towards the open door. "Greg?" Her voice is far too quiet to be heard by anyone other than Sherlock, but she untangles their hands and swiftly slides from the bed. She stumbles a bit, adding weight to the theory that her ear drum is damaged or ruptured, but finds her balance as she crosses the room. Sherlock rises and follows, pushing his hands into his pockets (all the better to keep from reaching out or, even worse, grabbing Molly and pushing her once more out of sight) and affecting an expression of unconcerned boredom.
In the main part of the suite, there are two policemen. It's the younger that holds Molly's attention. "Greg?" she repeats, coming to a halt.
"There you – holy fucking hell, Molls, your fucking face!" Swiftly the man in question shoves past Erasmus, bolting to Molly. He's swearing the whole time, his face turning a hideous shade of puce as outrage clearly sweeps over him. "Did Helen do this? Huh? Was it your mum? God fucking damn it, I told Jeanie we needed to do something, but she swore up and down Helen was all bark and no bite. No fucking bite, eh? Fuck."
"It's not as bad as it looks, honest."
Sherlock can't keep from bristling due to the extremely familiar way the man handles her, gently scraping hair away from her forehead and holding her chin between thumb and forefinger to turn her face this way and that, surveying the damage dealt. Looking him up and down, Sherlock takes in the tiny details that spells out the basics of this man – this Greg's – life: late twenties, newly married, smoker, childless, devoted to his work, considered capable of his job, avid football fan, harbors a secret addiction for trash tabloids, and a mundane human.
Stepping back, Molly meets Sherlock's back and immediately leans against his body. It doesn't take a genius to figure out her reason has more to do with calming the irritated Alpha behind her and not due to any discomfort on her part. "Sherlock, Greg Lestrade; he's married to my cousin Jean. Greg, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's… he's my Alpha." Where her face is unmarred, her skin picks up a cherry red glow.
"Alpha?" repeats Greg, brow furrowing. "Helen said –"
"Undoubtedly you were told I was an undesirable boyfriend that stole Molly from the bosom of her doting mother to have my wicked way with her," Sherlock snaps off, settling a hand on Molly's hip almost without thought. It's strange how easily this comfort and need for contact is quickly becoming, and later, when he's alone, perhaps he'll even allow himself to be discomforted by this swift change to a basic tenant of his personality. "And of course you weren't informed that Molly had not met just any man or a passing Alpha, but her future Bondmate. It does tend to complicate things, doesn't it? As well as serve for the reason Mrs. Hooper attacked Molly."
Understanding lights the constables gaze before he rolls his eyes heavenward, drawing his hand down his face. "Bloody hell, that woman is mad."
"She's sick," Molly rebukes, twisting the hem of her shirt between nervous fingers. The way she curls her shoulders and lowers her chin speaks of a wish to be hidden, and she flinches at any quick or unexpected movement made near her. It makes him utterly furious, and his teeth grit together once more. Across the room Erasmus is giving him sternly imploring looks, silently cautioning against losing his temper. Restraint is difficult but somehow Sherlock manages it, though his control is threadbare and worn to the point of snapping from the onset.
Lestrade doesn't fight the point, simply turns back to his partner and begins to confer about law and procedure. Future Bondmates are legally superior to parental rights, so long as both parties are fifteen years of age or older, and with Molly clearly being the victim of abuse in her parent's home, Helen Hooper really hasn't got a leg to stand on legally. Still, procedure must be followed and so an Alpha Sergeant is called in to confirm their claim of Unbound mates by scent, and while they wait for her arrival Lestrade uses a disposable camera to take pictures of Molly's face.
"You been to a doctor yet?" he inquires, thumb busy rolling the film. Her wordless response is negative. "If you want to file charges I'll need to take you to a hospital –"
"I'm not filing charges against my mum."
Opening his mouth to argue the point (maybe thinking I can't kill her if she's with the Met, but no one could make him admit to it), Sherlock is stopped only by the vigorous shaking of his brother's head. The motion is emphatic and serious. It's galling to do so, but he defers to Erasmus' knowledge out of a desire to comfort Molly, not further batter her with a fight over the proper course regarding her mother. After seventeen years of not caring about the emotional well-being of those around him, it's incredibly disconcerting to be so wholly focused on the state of such, even if it is only one person that holds this level of regard. Soon he'll be discussing his feelings with Erasmus and Mycroft will mock them both.
Still, after the Alpha arrives – a stocky woman with fuzzy, bottle red hair and ultra-thin eyebrows; Bonded, three children (adopted), ate a bagel for breakfast – and confirms that Molly and Sherlock are actually an Unbonded pair, he slides close to Lestrade and murmurs, "I'm taking her to a clinic once you leave. It will be recorded by a medical professional."
"Good," the constable answers, watching the sergeant and his own partner attempt to talk Molly into changing her mind regarding the battery charges. "She's a good kid, sure as hell doesn't deserve the shit Helen puts her through."
"Can't have been going on very long, could it?" Of course he knows it's been going on for ages, but information is offered best when given in the form of a correction. Normal people are so easy to manipulate that it's honestly a bit boring.
"Nah, poor kid's been suffering for ages. I've talked to her about getting help, even tried to get her to come live with Jeanie and me – that was even before the wedding – but Helen's got her so far under her thumb she got sick just talking about leaving. Literally, I mean, she got sick. How'd you manage it, then? Getting her out of the house?"
His answer is a shrug, because it's only now that Sherlock allows himself to comprehend the magnitude not of what he's done, stealing Molly in the night like the spoils of war, but of what it means that she willingly came with him. It was not simply to escape her parents and the abuse she suffered in her home, no, it was because from the first moment she laid eyes on him Molly trusted him. What madness, such a sweet, innocent girl putting her faith in Sherlock Holmes, a boy that is clumsy and incompetent when it comes to matters of the heart and human relationships. She should have run away, put as much distance between them as possible, but instead she asked him stay with her and slept in his bed without a hint of fear that he may harm her when she's at her most vulnerable. Even Unbound as they are, her instincts guide her to trust Sherlock with her very life, and that knowledge is… intoxicating.
"Guess it's the Alpha thing, yeah? However you did it, you're a good kid for risking your own arse to help her. Thanks." Lestrade claps Sherlock on the shoulder, a friendly gesture that matches his open smile. Sherlock is baffled by this turn of events, wholly unused to such genuine displays and overtures of friendship.
"I didn't do it for you," he blurts, hands back in his pockets and a rigid set to his back. It's the wrong thing to say, he knows it is, but his mouth won't stop. "My actions were to benefit Molly alone. Leaving my Omega in that place would have resulted in future actions that would've assuredly brought us together in a worse situation. Worse by my sandards, of course, as I would no doubt be in handcuffs and my way to lock-up by now, if that had been the case."
Nodding just once and very slowly, the constable eyes Sherlock as though he's only just realized he's engaging a new species in conversation. "Okay then," he responds, eyebrows lifting. "I'll try and keep Helen off your backs but legally speaking there's only so much I can do. She should look into finding a barrister. Oi, Mick, you ready?"
Lestrade's partner hands Molly a card, taking great pains not to accidently touch her. Sherlock appreciates the delicacy being shown to his Omega, especially since she looks close to fainting at any given moment. "You call me anytime, day or night, Molly. We'll keep you safe as long as you let us."
"Thank you," she responds, a small smile curling her mouth as her eyes drift up and over, finding Sherlock. The color warms until they're the shade of preservative amber, which turns Sherlock into an absolute blob of adoration. "But Sherlock will keep me safe."
The other woman, whose name Sherlock never bothered to get, shakes her head. "He'll do his best, but there are limits even for your Alpha. You understand? There are things he can't do, or shouldn't do, or will get him in a lot of trouble if he acts on his urges. Not that I'd blame him for it –" she turns, giving Sherlock a fiercely sympathetic nod – "but the fact remains the same. You think it over, yeah? Give us a call if you change your mind. Stay safe, Miss Hooper."
Lestrade hugs Molly before he leaves, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Stay strong," he whispers into her hair, giving her arm a squeeze before he follows his partner across the flat and out the door. For a while there is only a quiet so profound that the wall clock counting each second seems deafening. Erasmus' boots squeaking annoyingly as he shifts his weight. Nervously, Molly swipes her tongue across her lips to dampen them, watching Sherlock from under her lashes.
"The clinic is open," he announces, desperate to fill the void. "Are you ready to go?"
"Ready to – what? What clinic?" There's panic in Molly's eyes, and she even shuffles a few steps back.
"Your jaw is dislocated," Erasmus declares in a quiet voice, leaning against the wall so carelessly that an outsider might think this a conversation he has everyday. "It needs x-rays done. And you should be checked for a concussion or a hematoma, just in case."
Gnawing at her bottom lip, it takes her a moment to formulate a reply. "But – but I never go to a doctor after. I'll heal up fine on my own, really. What can a doctor do for bruises, anyway?" Her smile is wan and rather sad, which disturbs Sherlock to no end.
"This time you are going to see a doctor." Standing so straight his spine seems to have turned into an iron rod, Sherlock issues his command in such a way that all arguments are rendered null and void simply by virtue of his order.
Her nod is a small, withered thing, and her gaze drops to her toes. "Okay. B-but I should at least shower before –"
"If you shower you'll destroy evidence. Just put your shoes on and come with me."
She looks up, engaging Sherlock in a staring contest that is more war than anything else, a battle to see who issues commands and who obeys. It takes only a short amount of time for her gaze to flicker to the side in defeat. Sherlock is not immune to the frustrated heave of her chest under the t-shirt she slept in, or by the absence of a bra as made clear by the little pebbles of her nipples present under the soft cotton. Turning slowly, Molly makes her way back into the bedroom, pushing the door shut behind her.
Sherlock exhales a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"You guys are going to make adorable babies," Erasmus sighs, appearing a bit misty eyed. "I can't wait to be an uncle."
Huffing at the absurdity of his brother's far too sentimental for comfort opinion, Sherlock stomps into the narrow kitchen to scrounge up something for Molly to eat. It isn't until a bagel pops out of the toaster that he realizes exactly how far his instincts are taking him and he can't help but feel resentment burning in his gut. Not for Molly but for himself, for an aspect of his biology that he can control as well as he does the winds. It doesn't stop him from preparing the meager meal and is mostly forgotten when she emerges from his bedroom in fresh, though wrrinkled, clothing and her long hair in a neat braid. Taking a seat on a flimsy stool set at the galley kitchen's little bar, Molly accepts his efforts to provide and begins nibbling the cream cheese slathered bagel.
He can't help but be proud when she eats every bite despite the pain in her jaw and says, with no small amount of adoration in her eyes and voice and smile, "Thank you, Sherlock."
Ignoring Erasmus, which is much easier to do than usual as for once he's being quiet, Sherlock reaches out to smooth a hand down the back of her head. "There's no need," he murmurs, knowing it to be true.