A/N: Thank you to everyone that has supported this story; I know it's not an easy or particularly enjoyable read.

Trigger warnings: Medical exam, discussion of abuse s, a character making a rape "joke." (Which I do not condone or support, before anyone accuses or flames me.)

Disclaimer: I own nothing copyrighted, protected, or gods. Just the writing and OCs.

The exam takes nearly two hours and Molly is absolutely wrecked by the end of it. Her jaw is carefully but quite painfully put back into place; her eardrum is bruised and swollen, as well as her ear canal being badly irritated; she receives stitches for an older laceration hidden by her hair, the doctor quietly furious that it has been nearly week since the wound was received and had been left untreated ("It's alright," Molly tries to sooth the older woman, "I've had worse, really." It doesn't work, only serving to further upset Dr. Lee), resulting in the deep wound being painfully cleaned out before the stitching takes place; her cheekbone has a hairline fracture and there's nothing that can be done aside from allowing time to heal it; and, of course, there is The Conversation.

"See this?" Dr. Lee says, pointing to an x-ray of Molly's torso. "See these shadows? Calcium deposits where your bones have healed. One, two, three, four, five, six; six different, separate places where your ribs have been broken, or badly dislocated resulting in bones chipping. How many times has your arm been broken? A lot, I can see it from this x-ray. Three, maybe four? Your collarbone is still healing from a fracture, just here. Your hands –" another x-ray is shoved onto the lighted board, illuminating another point of shame – "your fingers were deliberately broken. None of this was an accident, I can see that. I'm not angry or disappointed with you, Molly, but I'm scared and worried. Tell me what's going on at home."

"Nothing," she whispers, hiding her eyes under the length of her fringe.

"Sweetheart, you don't have to protect anyone that hurts you. What you tell me never has to leave this room if you don't want to it, okay? But you need to tell someone."

Deep breaths that hurt to take, shivering that Molly couldn't control. "My mum had an accident when I was nine," she shakily explains. "She was thrown from our car and suffered a TBI, and… and she… she can't help it or control it. If she were herself, she'd never do any of this."

Up and down, up and down; Dr. Lee nods like a bobble head. "Traumatic brain injuries can completely change a person, so I believe you, Molly. I'm sure she would never have dreamed of hurting you before her injury. I understand that she's sick and not able to control herself. I really do. But her illness is hurting you so badly that I'm worried if you return home that one day something very tragic will happen." Code for murder, Molly figured. It's only ever been a matter of time, and how sad is it that she'd long ago accepted that if she died young it would be at the hands of her mother?

"My… my Alpha took me away," she admits, daring to look up. "I'm staying with him right now."

"Good." There is genuine relief in Dr. Lee's eyes. "That's really good, Molly."

The pelvic exam is probably the worst part, feeling like she's put on display and wanting to be anywhere else, even dead. At least the doctor is gentle, and she tells Molly everything she's going to do beforehand, so Molly knows exactly what's happening and what it's for and the reasons it's being done. That helps, gives her something to focus on. The silence is more difficult to handle, leaving Molly too much time to think on her humiliating position and the truths being laid out for a stranger to see.

"I'm thinking about going into medicine," she blurts out.

"I think you'd make an excellent doctor, Molly. Are you leaning towards a specific field? You're going to feel a pinch, I'm taking a biopsy now. One, two, three – and that part is over. Good job."

"Um," she squeaks, trying hard not to cry or jump because that bloody hurt, "I – I'm not sure. Pathology, maybe, but there's a lot of different branches, so I dunno…"

"One of my best friends is a forensic pathologist; last year he helped put a serial killer in prison. Okay, we're all done. Here are some napkins to clean up with, and you can sit up." At least there was no sexual assault to add to Molly's shame, and she can see the thankfulness in Dr. Lee's kind eyes for this small mercy. After everything is finished she's given a shot in the bum for pain, which burns like wildfire going in and is quick to make her weak, sloppy, and hardly able to walk. A nurse and Dr. Lee help her dress. The doctor herself half carries Molly to the waiting room, where an agitated Sherlock is waiting. His hair is badly mussed, as though he's been raking his fingers through it, and the few other patients waiting seem to be giving him a wide berth as he paces.

"Hilo," Molly greets, hand flopping on her wrist in what she'd meant to be a wave. "I can't feel my face anymore. I'm hungry. It's hot in here."

"We gave her something for the pain," Dr. Lee explains, shifting her grip as Molly loses her balance and nearly slides to the floor. "Oof! You okay there, sweetie?"

"You're pretty." Patting Dr. Lee's silky black hair, Molly gives her a sweet smile. "And you smell good. Doesn't she smell good, Sherlock? This is Sherlock. He's my Alpha. He smells better than you. Don't feel bad, he smells better than everyone." Pitching forward, Molly attempts to stagger the short distance between herself and Sherlock. Considering it feels as though her legs are made of rubber bouncy balls, it doesn't go so well; thankfully Sherlock catches her, the wiry strength in his gangly limbs keeping her upright.

In careful undertones, they discuss Molly's aftercare while the subject of their conversation drifts on a cotton wool cloud of narcotics somewhere above their heads. She thinks the conversation turns, briefly, to her home situation; certainly her Alpha's voice becomes a deeper rumble than she's ever heard from him as he vows "She won't be going back to there, never again."

He's so good, muses Molly, petting his chest. Two days they've known each other, and he's already rescued her, taken her to find safety away from her mother. Turning her face into his chest she breathes deeply of his scent, seeking the salt of sweat and the still changing musk of a male not yet fully grown into manhood. Her jaw throbs in a dull, distant way, warning her to turn her face to the side and be more mindful of her jaw, but she keeps her nose where it's at and allows her eyes to shut.

She must have fallen asleep, as she wakes in the passenger seat of Sherlock's car. He's leaning over her, close and closer still before the world shifts as Molly is tumbled back. Laughter wells in her throat and spills out, her hazy eyes taking in the way his eyes change colors in the morning light. "Stay here," he orders, resting a hand on her stomach for just a moment. "I've got to go in the chemists."

"Mmhmm," she hums, only just realizing that he inclined her seat so she could lie back. His thumb moves over the cotton covering her stomach, a warm motion, and Molly enjoys it in the seconds before she wraps herself in the warm darkness and returns to sleep.

She dreams of a cloud that grows hands and reaches down to brush hair from her face, thunderous voice sighing, "Poor kid looks like she got hit by a train." Then it begins to snow and her skin becomes ice, but her skin is burning and aching so she welcomes the cold as one would an old friend. Pat joins her, a positively giant bowl of ice cream in his hands, but he's only brought one spoon and refuses to share.

"You suck gimmie ice cream," she grumbles, and pine trees take up a chorus of laughter at her expense.

-X-

Waking is quite possibly the most difficult thing Molly's ever been forced to endure, as the process is as strenuous as digging herself out of a well-packed grave with paving stones placed atop it. Somehow she manages to force dry, crusty eyes open to confront the weak sunlight of a winter sunset spilling through gauzy white curtains. The window is rather small and quite old fashioned, as are the walls, and it's nowhere she recognizes. There's panic, but it's only a small amount, as the entire place smells of wood smoke and something half-wild and young. It takes a moment to place it as Sherlock, but then she does and limbs that were attempting to grow rigid return to the gelatinous state previous employed.

Out of her line of vision there is a long, shrill squeaking of wood on wood. Realizing she is lying on her stomach does much to aid the movements of her head and neck, allowing Molly to tip her chin down and peer across the room. Sherlock is rising from an ancient looking rocking chair that sits in front of a hearth that is glowing and crackling with a warm blaze. Books are piled around him.

"Where are we?" she asks hoarsely, sounding more like Uncle Craig (who always has a lit cigarette in his mouth) than a fifteen year old girl.

Sherlock's answer is concise, "My parents' home," spoken as he's crossing the space between the chair and his bed. The soft mattress dips as his weight settles on the edge of it, rolling Molly towards him so her hip presses against his thigh. He's watching her with an expression that's so well governed she has no hope of guessing what he's thinking, so she watches his hand lift and slowly – very slowly – reach towards her. His fingers are exquisitely long and well-shaped, which is rather a strange realization to have as she's never really thought about the shape of boy's fingers before now.

Carefully his palm molds over the curve of her hip bone, fingers pressing up until they're under the hem of her shirt and resting on bare skin. Molly thinks his breathing changes, becomes quicker, shallower, maybe. Neither of them move or speak or dare to do anything but carefully watch each other. Sherlock's throat works, Adam's apple bobbing before his gaze lifts and turns away, his cheeks and neck flushing… though he doesn't withdrawal his hand.

"How'd we get here?"

"I drove us."

"I don't even remember leaving the clinic…"

A smile touches his mouth, and Sherlock looks down at Molly with such incredible fondness that her heart seizes in her chest. "No surprise. You were extremely drugged."

A groan rises up from the depths of her stomach, forcing its way out in much the same way she forces her limbs to move. She aches all over, probably from being in one position for too long. It's a bit awkward, rolling onto her back when Sherlock's light weight is sagging the mattress in the opposite direction but Molly manages it. Stretching her arms above her head, straining the muscles in her legs and feet until they burn, she yawns hugely before falling limp once again.

They both pretend not to realize that Sherlock's hand is now on her stomach, spread out on thin fabric that's warm from her body. It's only in looking down her body, past the swell of her small breasts to the slight rise of her stomach where his hand is half under the thin fabric, that she realizes she's wearing pajamas. Pajamas she certainly wasn't wearing earlier. The blush hits with such force that she swears the bedding must be on fire.

"I didn't undress you," Sherlock announces, a sarcastic sort of smile on his mouth. It's at odds with his eyes, eyes grown dark and narrow and are focused on Molly in the way a starved predator would look at weak prey. "Mum thought it would be… improper."

"What are you, a psychic?" It's only partially a tease.

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly, I'm merely observant: from your expression when you saw your clothing I saw you were surprised, and surmised your thoughts based on the situation. It's a simple process of deduction."

"Deduction?" she repeats, awed and baffled by the staggering intelligence of the mere boy in front of her. "That's… wow."

"Good wow or bad wow?" inquires Sherlock, whose mouth has grown tensed at the thought of rejection. Molly imagines his childhood couldn't have been easy, not if he was 'deducing' classmates and teachers.

"Good wow; really good wow. I'm impressed."

"Impressed?" he parrots, eyebrows crawling nearly up to his hairline.

"Yeah, I'm impressed. You're impressive." Molly thinks, oh boy, he's going to kiss me again, and her stomach swoops as though she's on a rollercoaster. There's firelight in his hair which turns the curls into a dark halo; her fingers itch to touch them. She leans up on an elbow, turns her chin up and does her very best to ignore how swollen and ugly her face feels, because Sherlock's looking at her like she's precious and beautiful and she doesn't think anyone has ever looked at her like this before – she wants to savor it – and his fingers move on the flesh of her stomach, a caress that makes her whimper and flinch and –

The door flies open and Sherlock leaps from the bed as though he's a cat that's been doused in ice water.

"I thought I heard voices! Is Molly awake, then?" A woman bustles into the room, flicking a light switch to send electricity to an overhead fixture. Molly blinks several times, eyes watering from the sudden brightness when before the room had been so nice and gently lit by firelight. "Oh good, you are up. Poor thing, how's your face feeling?" In a flash she's by the bedside, taking the place her son only just vacated to brush her hand through Molly's hair, looking her over with obvious worry.

There's no one else this could be but Sherlock's mother. There's a likeness to them, the same startling eyes and angular beauty, though Mrs. Holmes' looks are more feminine than her son's. Her hair is such a pale blonde that it seems to be soft gilt, pulled up with a careless sort of elegance that Molly immediately envies. Her hands are cool and infinitely gentle, and she smells of cooking herbs, sweet perfume, and something Molly can only describe as kindness.

"It hurts," she admits, wincing when Mrs. Holmes gently touches her cheekbone.

"I'm sure it does, sweetheart. Sherlock, refill the cold compress with ice, please. Her swelling is worse than this afternoon."

Wordlessly Sherlock picks up the rubber bag to obey, sparing Molly a short look from behind his mother that makes her blush flare back up again.

"Do you feel like coming down to dinner or would you like a tray in bed? You really do need to get something on your stomach, especially before you take your medicine."

"Oh, I – no, please don't go to any trouble – I'll come down, if that's alright."

Mrs. Holmes smile is beatific. "You're no trouble at all, Molly; you're one of the family now, aren't you? Our Sherlock's Omega… I tell you we couldn't be happier he's found you. And at such a young age! It's really a blessing, especially considering your situation – well, now, if he hadn't fetched you Will and I would have done, though it might have gone a messier route. Probably best this way. Now then, I've lain out a dressing gown and slippers, you slip these on and I'll help you downstairs."

"I – I can manage on my own, really –" Genuinely baffled and uncomfortable with such fussing, Molly has no idea how to respond to it. She's a fish out of water, no doubt about it, but it still makes something inside her grow soft and warm. Mrs. Holmes is very… very motherly, and it's both unexpected and desperately missed. Her aunts have only ever been allowed so much leeway in her life, especially after the accident and Mum's changes… and there was only so much Molly could admit to, too frightened by her mother's threats to tell her family precisely how bad it was becoming. The adults had remained mostly blinded, while the children had known to the last one, all of doing their best to keep Molly away from home as much as possible.

"Sweetheart, if you can walk a straight line after the shot you were given, I'll eat my hat." Giving Molly a wry smile, Mrs. Holmes pats her back in a comforting sort of way before helping her into the dressing gown. It's old and warm, worn into a state of snuggly softness by the years, and it smells of Mrs. Holmes' perfume and lavender soap. Molly is content to wrap it around herself, feeling quite warm and safe, a feeling so unusual that tears prick the corners of her eyes. She's so used to having fear turning her stomach sour, as even when she's away from home her mind is never far from returning home, but the combination of Sherlock and his mother's attention works miracles.

Mrs. Holmes was correct in assuming Molly couldn't walk a straight line on her own, and even with help she bangs off the wall a few times. Her limbs are weak and wobbly, and there's a strange thickness in her mind that prevents quick thoughts or cleverness. With help she makes it down the narrow staircase to the ground floor, where she's swept into a rustic kitchen brimming with delicious scents, sounds, and men. Four pairs of eyes are turned to Molly and four mouths grow silent, simply watching as Mrs. Holmes takes her to the long table and sits her down on the bench seat.

Molly adjusts the robe, pulling it more tightly around herself and flushing, as it's incredibly awkward to be in a room full of strangers (and Sherlock, who exists in the same realm of unknowing as Schrodinger's cat in the sense that he both is and is not a stranger), nearly all of them males, while in her pajamas. It's Sherlock who breaks the awkward silence, offering her the compress.

"Thank you," she murmurs, shifting uncomfortably and avoiding the many pairs of watching eyes.

"Keep that on until it's time to eat," orders Mrs. Holmes, tapping the bag of ice with an imperious finger. "Your poor little face is at least twice the size it should be. Boys, keep Molly company while I finish up."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock takes a seat beside her. "Shall I juggle?" he drawls, daring to snag tomatoes from the table top. His father – as there's no doubt that he's Sherlock's father – casually whacks his son in the head with a folded newspaper. "Really, Dad?"

"Last time you got meatloaf stuck on the ceiling," the brother from this morning – Erasmus, wasn't it? – points out.

"I think it's still up there." As one they look up, searching the ceiling for the meatloaf. With her throbbing face half covered by the compress, Molly fails in holding back laughter.

Mr. Holmes settles an amused smile on her. "Dinners are always interesting."

"After dinner we'll show you naked baby photos of Sherlock," Erasmus announces with a positively devilish grin. The nameless brother rolls his eyes in an extravagant sort of way, propping his chin on his hand and appearing bored to the point of tears.

"We will not." Despite an attempt to sound menacing, Sherlock's voice cracks. This provokes cackles of amusement from Erasmus, who flat out points and laughs.

"Forgive the juveniles, Miss Hooper, it's not often they're allowed in public." Undoubtedly the eldest, the man in question stares at Molly in such a way that she's positive he's digging ever secret she's got out of her mind. When he offers his hand in greeting it's soft and dry, but his grip is loose and fleeting. "Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, um, hi. I'm Molly." She gives a wave, an awkward little thing that dies an early death.

Erasmus mimics his brother's haughty expression, nose just a bit in the air as he offers his hand in a way that suggests he's wary of something foul being smeared on it. "Erasmus Holmes, Miss Hooper, we're ever so… pleased… to have you in our home. Come, let us pretend we're having tea at the palace and have no idea who you are."

Molly has to bite her tongue – hard – to keep from snickering.

"Erasmus," Mr. Holmes mildly warns, but with a quirk to his mouth that suggests he's as amused as anyone else.

It's very easy to be in Sherlock's home, to listen to his brother's bickering and his parents referring, to be banned from helping lay out the dinner table and having Mrs. Holmes hover like a mother hen. She brings Molly a large glass of milk and two pills, an antibiotic and painkiller (which she's thankful for, as by now her heartbeat resounds in her cheek and temple and ear with the force of a kettle drum), and she swallows them both before digging into dinner. Dinner is stew and flaky bread and steamed veggies, all items that are relatively easy for her to eat even with her jaw having shocking little range of motion. She's quiet, choosing to listen and soak in the conversation around her, awed as it turns from Mr. Holmes' half-finished project of cleaning the garden shed out to advancements in DNA testing that Molly, as drugged and tired as she is, has a hard time following. On another day she would have been in the thick of it, asking questions and making mental notes, starving for knowledge; but tonight, with the world all fuzzy and golden from the linger effects of the shot and the painkiller, she simply lets it roll off her as water does on duck feathers.

It's even easier to slip into a state that's like being piled in a bed of loose feathers, all soft and downy, head lolling on her neck.

"No resistance whatsoever to even mild narcotics," says Mycroft, sounding rather judgmental.

"Shove off," Sherlock snaps, and then Molly's nose is full of the scent of him. Her eyelids are so incredibly heavy but she manages to open them, taking in the blurry figures of the Holmes family in a series of blinks, not truly registering that she's leaned so far to the side that she's half in Sherlock's lap.

"We'd better get her up to bed, she's already in another world."

"She can sleep in my room again." To Molly's mind, Sherlock's words sound more like a demand than a suggestion. "I'll sleep on the lie-low if I get tired."

"How come I never got to keep girls in my bed when I was his age?"

"You could have had as many girls as you liked in your room, so long as you weren't with them."

"Sherlock really is your favorite, isn't he?"

"He's not staying in there with her, Ras, and I love all my boys just the same."

"She's drugged, Mother; what could we possibly do when she can't even lift her own head?"

"Do you even have a penis? Ow! Mum, Jesus, I was joking!"

"That's not a joke, Anthony Erasmus."

"Oh, come on –"

"Don't sass your mother."

"Yeah, Ras, don't sass Mum."

"Sherlock, your Omega is dribbling on herself. Please take it somewhere else." A shuffle, the sense of movement, and finally a loud yelp. "Sherlock! Mother, are you just going to let him –"

"Sherlock, sweetheart, let your brother go. And Mycroft, don't call Molly an 'it.' She's a person and, more importantly, she's a part of our family now."

The last thing Molly remembers is something damp and soft on her forehead, a kiss, maybe; a hand in her hair, stroking; and Sherlock's voice, though what he says is lost into the darkness of oblivion.