Coping

by Michelle

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“John said that if you asked if you offered help, he would rather have anyone but you...”

Those words were burning in his memory like an engulfing fire, threatening to burn his whole being to ashes. As his feet tiredly carried him back to Baker Street, he could still see Molly’s grief-stricken face, relaying to him John’s message. She was trying so hard not to break in front of him, he had seen that before she turned to enter John’s house again, with little Rosie draped over her shoulder.

Anyone but you…

Understandably, John was blaming him for Mary’s death. He’s right, Sherlock thought. As always, Sherlock’s pride and cocky nature got the better of him, and he wanted to impress his victim even once caught. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined the gun appearing out of nowhere, pointed at him, and Mary jumping in front of him. It was his arrogance that cost Mary her life while saving his own.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was truly scared, totally insecure, lost, and hurting so much inside, that he could feel his heart clamp. All his certainties, his life before that tragic night fell apart like a house of cards, and he was clueless about what to do, how to go on. In a matter of a minute, he lost two of his dearest friends - one to a bullet and the other to grief and his own fault….

His usually hyperactive brain was blank, tired from the events of the last week, from his own helplessness and grief.

When he came to 221B Baker Street, he almost missed the entrance door, only the smell of coffee coming from Speedy’s Cafe made him stop in his tracks and turn back to enter the house.

“Oh, Sherlock, how’s John?” Mrs Hudson ran out of her flat, greeting him with a worried expression.

“He’s…” Sherlock paused when he looked at her, not knowing what to say. “Not well, I suppose… He doesn’t want to see me.”

The simplicity of that statement hurt him badly when he sighed and lowered his eyes. The mother in Mrs Hudson reached out for his arm, giving him a squeeze.

“Just give him time, Sherlock… He’ll come round.” She tried to encourage him with a soft,  understanding voice.

He looked up at her with sad eyes and attempted a smile as he embraced her with one arm and kissed her forehead lightly.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he said quietly with genuine gratitude making her smile at him.

“I’ll make you some tea; that will do you good, you’ll see,” she said and disappeared in her kitchen.

Sherlock smiled after her. The dear Mrs Hudson, the ‘not-your-housekeeper’ landlady, the woman who he had to admit was like a second mother to him - mostly driving him crazy, but an essential part of his life, always supportive, always protective of him.

When he opened the door to the sitting room, his eyes wandered around and landed on John’s armchair. He swallowed the tears threatening to spill and took a deep breath. No, he couldn’t give up hope, he couldn’t give up on John Watson, the dearest and best friend he’d ever had. He would do everything it took, to help him in his grief, no matter what the cost.

＊＊＊＊＊

“All right, John, I’ll be here again tomorrow at 12, after my morning shift.”

“Thank you, Molly, I will be able to take a few patients in the afternoon,” John said with a faint smile.

“No problem,” she smiled and gave him a quick hug.

He opened the door, waiting for her to leave. Suddenly, Molly stopped and turned round to him in hesitation.

“John… I think you should---”

“No,” the doctor interrupted her with a resolved voice. “I will not speak to him, not now, not tomorrow, not ever.”

Molly briefly closed her eyes with a quiet sigh. “See you tomorrow,” she said finally and left.

She walked into a light drizzle. However, having no desire to enter the stifling atmosphere of the tube, she kept on walking, passing one street after another, as if the raindrops could wash away the sorrow from her. Halfway through to her house, Molly stopped and decided she couldn’t go home yet. She needed to check on him.

His tired and sad eyes, hunched posture and quiet and lifeless, usually so vibrant voice from earlier when he came to inquire about John, was something she couldn’t erase from her mind. He had seemed so lost and she couldn’t bear it…

When Mrs Hudson opened the front door, she hugged her.

“My dear! Come in, you’re soaked!” She pulled Molly inside, took her coat and hung it on the rack at the door.

Strange, the pathologist thought, I’d never noticed when it started pouring down.

“I… I’ve come to check---”

“He’s upstairs, dear,” the landlady interrupted her knowingly. “I’m worried about him…” she said quietly, visibly in distress.

“Me too… That’s why I’m here,” Molly replied almost in a whisper.

“I was just making him some tea, I’ll make you one as well and bring it up in a moment.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Molly smiled and walked up the stairs.

She stopped in front of the closed door to Sherlock’s sitting room, trying to compose herself before entering. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to hold back tears. The grief over Mary, John’s stubborn denial, her worry about Sherlock… Everything was hanging over her like a heavy shadow, threatening to crush her.

Deep in thought, she didn’t even notice that the door had opened and when opening her eyes, she met the stirring blue ones of the great detective.

“Sherlock!” she gasped in surprise. “I… I just…” Molly closed her eyes in frustration and exhaled loudly.

Enough; get a grip.

“I just came to check on you. After you left today, I was…” Her voice trailed off; her eyes focused firmly on his.

“Worried, I know,” he finished quietly, and a gentle smile settled on his tired face.

She saw that the smile was veiled with sadness.

“Is there anything you need?” Molly asked him barely audibly, overwhelmed by emotions.

Sherlock’s smile widened as he replied to her. “Company would be nice…”

When his smooth baritone faded, she smiled back at him in sympathy. He surprised her completely when his hand reached to her face and gently wiped away a wet strand of hair, stubbornly stuck to her cheek. Molly blinked, the touch of his long fingers on her skin felt like fire; she almost forgot to breathe.

Sherlock’s fingers lingered on her face for a while as if he forgot this was Molly Hooper, his pathologist, and he was Sherlock Holmes, the detective who never gives in to emotions and keeps strictly to being rational. Suddenly, being irrational occurred to him as soothing, peaceful, healing... In a moment, he awakened from his momentary daze and let his hand drop to his side again. He stepped aside, asking his guest to enter.

Molly swallowed and walked in, slightly shivering from the cold seeping into her bones from the rain.

“Take a seat, please, I’ll be right back,” Sherlock said and disappeared into his bedroom.

When he came back, he had a tartan blanket and a towel in his hands. He approached Molly, who was still standing as if afraid to make herself at home without his presence, and carefully wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, handing her the towel.

“I think your hair might need it,” he remarked with a soft smile.

To say Molly was amazed would be an understatement. Here she came to see if Sherlock was all right and support him in his grief, and here they were with him behaving totally against his usual manners and looking after her in a way no one would ever expect from him. His eyes were still sad, but the care he was showing through his actions was heartwarming.

She accepted the towel with a chuckle and a grin, loosening the bun her hair was tied in, trying to bring some order into the long strands again. “I must look like a wet poodle.”

Sherlock smiled and spoke without thinking. “You look lovely as always, Molly.”

Their eyes met and their smiles froze.

Did I really say that?

Sherlock swallowed hard. His mind was trying to focus on something rational, but he was transfixed - by the freed hair cascading over her slender shoulders, lining her face and making it softer; by the way her delicate and skilful fingers were working the towel; the sound of her soft laughter lingering in his ears…

The air was suddenly thick between them, none of them knowing how to react, yet unable to break eye contact. 

Mrs Hudson saved the moment as she walked cheerfully in with a tray with a teapot, two cups and a small plate of buttered scones and jam.

“Here we go, my dears,” she sang, her eyes focused on the tray, blissfully unaware of what she had just interrupted.

Sherlock stood still while Mrs Hudson put the tray on the coffee table and chatted more to herself than to them, before turning around, ready to leave again. His eyes wandered back to Molly, who looked surprisingly calm at once, and he noticed her characteristic small smile.

“A good English afternoon tea cheers everyone up,” Mrs Hudson said with a beaming smile when she stroke Molly’s cheek in a motherly style, and then did the same to Sherlock.

Any other time in the years before, he would have shooed her away, yet now, he just smiled at her and said thank you before she left the room.

When they were alone, his eyes landed on Molly again, seeing she was observing him with curiosity. Her look was warm and caring, and an unbelieving smile had settled on her face.

“I know,” Sherlock stated with a quiet chuckle. “Even I can be human sometimes.”

Molly’s smile widened. “You always are, you’re just mostly clueless about how to show it.”

The surprise on his face made her avert her look from him, but she couldn’t help herself not to add something. “However, you’re getting better at it lately…”

When she dared to look back at him, she noticed he was smiling again.

“Molly Hooper,” he said warmly. “You never cease to amaze me.”

She shivered at his words lightly.

After a moment of silence between them, Molly remembered why she came and moved towards the coffee table, sitting down, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, and reached for the teapot, pouring the steaming liquid into both cups on the tray. She needed to compose herself after his words before she could talk more.

To her astonishment, Sherlock joined her on the sofa and took one of the scones, spread some jam on it and put it on the side plate, passing it to her with a little smile. Molly accepted the plate with a quiet ‘thank you’ and watched him repeat the procedure with a scone for himself.

Sherlock never shares the sofa with anyone, she thought and the only conclusion she could draw from it was that he was feeling lonely, truly lonely…

They ate and drank in silence for a few minutes, sitting side by side, neither of them truly knowing what to say and how to say it. When she finished her scone and took another sip of her tea, Molly looked at him from the side. His face looked tired and pale; the fine lines around his eyes revealed a lack of sleep lately. No wonder, she didn’t get much sleep either since…

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly, her look fully focused on him.

Sherlock sighed and swallowed hard. “I’m…. coping,” he replied with a broken voice.

Molly suddenly didn’t know what to say. She understood him too well.

Sherlock looked at her with concern and saw the black rings under her eyes, and both mental and physical exhaustion reflected on her face.

“And how are you feeling?” His deep voice was very soft.

She took a deep breath, fighting back tears.

Running between the morgue and John’s house, looking after dead people and a grieving friend and his baby every day, I don’t know when was the last time I had more than five hours of sleep, I’m glad when I manage to have coffee in the morning and one meal a day to keep me going...

“I’m…. coping,” she replied with a faint smile, unable to look at him, fearing she might lose it.

The detective shocked her when his hand covered hers in her lap.

“I wish I could help you… You need rest,” he said and his blue eyes observed her with care and something she found almost difficult to believe in.

She tried to compose herself, closing her eyes briefly when sighing.

“It’s all right, we’ve all had a lot on our plates lately.” Her voice faded with a little smile aimed at him.

Sherlock pulled back his hand, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He reached for his teacup on the coffee table.

“Molly, do you ever feel like…” he paused, staring at the cup in his hands, which was still sitting on the table, “… like you’re drowning in a raging river, and the stream keeps pulling you deeper and deeper and you don’t know what to do to stop it?”

Molly’s look softened in pain; she noticed his hands were shaking a bit.

“I’ve often felt like that in the past seven years…” she replied quietly in a sad tone.

Sherlock looked up at her and pierced her with a gaze that both, warmed her and made her shiver, so she had to look away. He knew exactly what she was referring to and all at once, he felt ashamed of himself. Ashamed, guilty and totally unworthy of her affections.

The pathologist took a deep breath before looking back at him and continuing.

“I know you’re blaming yourself for Mary’s death…”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and shut his eyes in pain.

“And I know John is not making it easier for you either. He will understand eventually, once he’s processed the worst pain, but Sherlock…” Molly took his hand in hers and squeezed it tightly. “It is not your fault… You must believe me…. People who love you want to protect you. If John was there with you instead of her, he would have done the same thing. If I was there, I would have done the same thing…”

Her quiet voice broke at her last words when she realised the monumental meaning of what she had just indirectly confessed to him. She could see the pain in his eyes and how those steel-blue pools began welling up as he squeezed her hand back.

“Molly… You have always been so kind to me… Even though I didn’t deserve it…” He smiled sadly at her. “I still don’t.”

“True, you’re an arrogant bastard most of the time, and God knows I’ve dragged you out of more rubbish than anyone can imagine,” she chuckled and made him smile before turning serious again.

“But… you have your moments of greatness, and I don’t mean as a detective…”

The soft smile on her face did it. His emotions spilt through the wall of his barrier, and he couldn’t stop them even if he wanted to. Silently, Sherlock Holmes started crying…

Molly’s heart clamped at the sight of the man she was so deeply in love with being totally overcome by grief. He was holding his head in his hands and trying to stop the flow of the tears. However, she understood him; she knew he would never be the same man again. His own misjudgement of human nature forced him to make a fatal error and he would be marked by it forever. In fact, he wasn’t the same man any more - he was better; more sensitive to people around him, selfless, caring.

Molly was certain the emotional transformation of Sherlock Holmes was real and was happening right in front of her eyes. What he had only shown in glimpses over the years she had known him, was freely flowing from him now. Molly had known from those glimpses that the great detective definitely had a heart, but only recently, he was truly willing to show it to others.

She put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him gently into her embrace, caressing his curls with her other hand.

Sherlock laid his head on her shoulder and welcomed the embrace gratefully, while silently weeping. He was emotionally drained and desperately needed sleep, but he could hardly sleep a wink since that fatal night in the Aquarium. The same nightmare kept reappearing night after night and he always woke up in a worse state than before.

“It’ll be all right; it just takes time,” Molly whispered, her cheek leaning against his head, trying to comfort him.

Sherlock, who had stopped crying by then, smiled into her jumper before lifting his head and looking at her softly. She gently wiped the tears away from his face and her eyes met his when she dropped her hands on his shoulders. It was then she noticed that his arms were still around her waist and suddenly, she became shy.

Sherlock noticed his arms around Molly and pulled back, realising he was becoming too comfortable with his favourite pathologist.

“Would you… Would you like some more tea, Molly?” Sherlock asked, already fidgeting with the teapot.

“Yes, thank you,” her words were almost inaudible, her smile very shy.

Sherlock started refilling her cup, but she noticed that his hands were shaking. She reached for the teapot and put it down. Then she carefully took his hand in hers.

“When was the last time you slept properly?” she worried.

Sherlock sighed. “Over a week ago…” he whispered in resignation.

Her heart was breaking for him. But now was not the time for more depression. Sherlock Holmes needed sleep, they all did, but he was the one she was with now, and she would do anything to make him feel better.

She stood up, pulling him up with her, as her hand was still holding his.

“Molly, what…?” Sherlock was confused but she interrupted him while they walked across the corridor toward his bedroom.

“Sherlock Holmes needs to sleep and it’s not open for discussion,” she said as sternly as she could and raised an eyebrow at him as if to say ‘just dare to oppose me’.

His soft laughter made her smile. Once at his bed, she helped him to take off his jacket, made him sit on the bed and started taking his shoes off.

“Molly, I’m perfectly capable of…” Sherlock started, embarrassed.

“Shut up, Sherlock, you’re exhausted, so just for once in your life, do what I say.”

Her reply almost took his breath away. The fierce resolve in her voice, with which she was taking care of her friend was something Sherlock absolutely admired, and he smiled when observing her delicate fingers undoing the laces on his shiny and expensive shoes. Molly had put him on his place many times before when his behaviour was not only disgraceful but also undignified. But it never stopped amazing him.

She looked up at him only once, for a few seconds, and when she saw the smile on his face, the corners of her mouth turned slightly upwards too. Then, she pushed Sherlock gently down to bed and pulled the duvet over him, while his eyes were never leaving her focused face. He felt almost like a sick child being looked after with love by someone he loved…

Suddenly, Molly became a bit insecure when standing at his bed.

“Just try to sleep, you really need it…” She paused for a bit and finally looked into his eyes, and noticing the softness in them, she swallowed hard again.

“If… you need anything, just… just text me, okay?” She attempted a shy smile.

Sherlock smiled slightly and just when she was about to leave, he spoke quietly. “Molly?”

She turned around.

“Could you…” His voice suddenly broke and she saw tears welling up in his eyes.

“Could you stay with me? Please…”

Molly gasped quietly, her heart aching for him. Sherlock Holmes of the past never asked for anything even close resembling physical contact, especially not in his own bed. But this was a different Sherlock Holmes. The one whose eyes had been opened to the cruel, yet beautiful reality which mingled pain and joy in one, and he couldn’t push them away anymore. She wiped away her own tear which had just escaped her eye and said, “Sure…”

His sad but relieved smile and the softest of looks in his glistening eyes warmed her insides when she was watching him make space for her on the bed, pulling the duvet slightly away to let her in.

Molly took her shoes off and slightly trembling, slid under the duvet next to Sherlock, with her back to his face, clutching the pillow as if for support. He pulled the duvet over her, and when she felt his body close to hers and his arm carefully wrapping around her waist, she held her breath.

He knew what it was doing to her, of course he did, and yet, he couldn’t help it. His own body had been subconsciously yearning for her closeness for a long time now, especially since Mary´s passing. Molly had always been the quiet but solid rock of his existence. She may have been standing in the background for the first years of their acquaintance but she had certainly been in the forefront for the better part of the latter years of what had become their friendship.

 “Is it… okay?” he whispered carefully, all too aware of her feelings, but as always, she also knew he needed her close to feel safer and less alone.

Molly didn’t care about anything else but making him feel better and she had to admit this would make her feel better too, no matter how she would feel later, and he probably knew it. No, he just knew it for sure. No matter how tired he was, he never stopped observing. He surely knew what her daily routine had been over the past week, and her worn-out face definitely told him the rest. Sherlock knew she needed to be looked after too, and there was no one in her life to do it for her. Until now…

“It´s fine…” she whispered back with a small smile to herself and to seal her approval, she carefully covered his hand over her waist with her own.

She felt him relax as he laid his head in the crook of her neck, not minding her still a bit damp hair.

Sherlock couldn’t help but breathe in the light floral scent of her perfume. She never wore much, mostly since it was pointless in the morgue, but she was also not the type of women who put too much importance on make-up and perfumes. Her quiet beauty shone from within her; she didn’t need anything to better her façade. But he recognised this scent as the only one she wore outside of work. It soothed his mind right away - the familiar scent of the woman who had been the source of strength for him for years.

Something in his heart had shifted towards her as if a door had been suddenly opened ajar, and although he wasn’t absolutely sure what it was yet, he found himself liking it. He liked her calm and quiet ways, her honesty, her caring nature, her loyalty and kindness, her scolding and grounding him when he behaved stupidly, her interest in oddities and the weird matching his, her absolute focus when she worked, even her bad jokes. He liked being near her even though he usually managed to pretend his disinterest, but he always craved for more…

“Thank you, Molly Hooper…”

His soft baritone resonating in her ear made her tremble slightly, and as if he felt it, he tightened his hold on her waist and whispered.

“Rest now, you need it too…”

The last thing Molly felt before fatigue overtook her was a gentle press of his lips on her temple. She smiled.

＊＊＊＊＊

When Molly woke up, the bedroom was dark already, the lights from the street were casting a soft glow over the ceiling. The door was slightly ajar, and a streak of light was coming in from the living room. Suddenly, she realised where she was and turned on the bed quickly. Sherlock was not there, but she was tucked in neatly. He made sure she was as comfortable as possible before he left her about half an hour ago, after having been watching her sleep peacefully for a while.

Molly looked at the clock on the bedside table - it was almost 8 pm.

My God, did I sleep for almost four hours?!

She rose from the bed and followed the light into the living room. It was empty but she could hear that somebody was in the kitchen, probably making tea, since she heard the quiet clinking of the teaspoon in a mug. And there was a lovely smell coming from there too.

Molly smiled and walked towards the kitchen, stopping at the doorway when she saw Sherlock at the counter. There were two mugs on it and he was just finishing teas in both of them. The smell of food was from the Chinese takeaway spread out on the table.

Without looking at her, Sherlock smiled while still focusing on the tea.

“You’re four minutes earlier than I predicted, Doctor Hooper.”

When he finally looked at her, he found her smiling, leaning against the door frame and shaking her head.

“How on Earth did you deduce that, Sherlock Holmes?” she chuckled.

“Elementary; the time that it takes for the smell of food to reach the bedroom. When Mrs Hudson makes breakfast for me sometimes, I can smell the bacon in my dream and wake up automatically.” He was grinning now.

Molly scrunched her nose before reacting. “Oh, just shut up and give me my tea.”

Sherlock laughed and passed a mug to her, looking at her fondly. She returned his smile and sat down at the table with her tea.

“Since you lost over a pound since last week, I figured you don’t really eat much these days, so I hope Chinese is okay,” Sherlock said more seriously, with no hint of the usual bragging deducting tone in his voice.

Molly’s smile faded a bit and she answered quietly. “It’s fine, thank you…”

At times, his remarks about her weight changes annoyed her, but not so that day. That day, he was simply worried about her, she could hear it in his voice and mostly, see it in his eyes. Those eyes, which no matter how much he tried to keep a façade were always the only thing betraying his true emotional state. She saw through those eyes and he knew it.

He put a plate and cutlery in front of her, something quite unusual for him since he always ate Chinese straight from the boxes. He wanted to treat Molly right; she deserved better after all she’d been through, not just in the past week, but especially with him in all the years they’ve known each other. He knew she was exhausted beyond reason, and yet, here she was, coming to see whether he was okay and keeping him company, no matter how badly he had treated her in the past.

He took a plate and a fork for himself and sat down opposite her. They smiled at each other shyly.

They were eating in silence for a while, each deep in thought, but occasionally glancing at each other and smiling.

Molly was still adjusting to this ‘new’ Sherlock - kind, tentative, warm. Maybe it was just when he was sad, but she liked it very much, for she always knew there must have been more to him than met the eye of everyone. She still found it almost impossible to believe that she spent almost four hours in Sherlock’s bed, that he even allowed someone into his most private space…

Not that he didn’t use her own house as a bolt hole many times over the years, but though she often visited his flat when bringing various body parts or lately with Rosie, she had only entered his bedroom a couple of times years ago when helping him recover from his drug incidents (the memories of those time still made her shudder, breaking her heart all over). But however tired she still was, it must have worked well both ways, because not only did he seem in a better mood, but she herself felt better as well.

When she was finishing her tea, Molly finally found her voice.

“I’m… sorry that I passed out for so long…” She was a bit embarrassed and stared into her tea. “I hope you managed to get some sleep too.” She finally looked at him, worry reflected in her warm dark brown eyes.

Sherlock’s eyes observed her warmly and his smile was soft. It was the same look and smile he gave her before he kissed her cheek some time ago when they were out solving a case together. He always remembered that day fondly, although he wasn’t sure why (or if he was honest with himself, he didn’t want to admit to himself why).

“In fact,” he started. “For the first time in over a week… I slept soundly and didn’t have any---” He stopped himself and winced.

“Nightmares?” Molly asked softly.

“Yes…” He sighed and ran his hands over his face as if to wipe the grief, guilt and shame off it. Then he looked back at her and a sad smile appeared on his pale face again.

“You must have a… calming effect on me, Molly Hooper…” His observant eyes were never leaving hers. “You’ve always had…”

There was tension in the air, and Molly was trying hard to decide whether it was because of the lingering food smell or Sherlock’s gaze on her.

“I… I should probably go…” she said and swallowed.

Sherlock’s face fell slightly and she felt a pang of guilt stinging her heart. She didn’t want to leave him alone when he was sad, but she knew she was walking on thin ice with her affection to him.

“I’m sorry, I just… I have an early morning shift and have to be at John’s at noon to look after Rosie…” Molly tried to explain that she was not running away from him.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Of course, I’m sorry I kept you, I shouldn’t have…” he added with a sad smile and looked down at his now empty mug.

His depressed voice hurt her ears, so she gently laid her small hand over his wrist gently making him look up at her, letting her see all the sadness in his tired steel-blue eyes.

“I’m glad you did, Sherlock…” She smiled at him warmly and squeezed lightly his wrist. “Besides,” she tried a lighter tone. “I have something to brag about now - I slept in Sherlock Holmes’s bed. How about that for a headline?”

She scrunched her nose again as she said that, and it made him chuckle. He realised he loved whenever she did that little gesture.

“I wouldn’t mention that to Lestrade, though, or I’ll never hear the end of it and you could have a little mercy on me,” he winked at her.

She laughed and stood up, releasing the hold on his wrist. Sherlock immediately felt the cold when he lost contact with her warm hand.

Molly started cleaning up the table but Sherlock stopped her.

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll do it,” he said calmly. “I’ll call you a cab.”

"I can take the tube---”

“It’s almost 9 pm, and it’s Thursday, the night before Friday, and the first lot of drinkers are out tonight. There’s no way I’m going to leave you to share the same tube with them, Molly Hooper, and don’t worry, I’m paying for it,” Sherlock said with a resolved voice and was dialling for the cab already.

Molly was a bit shocked at how protective he was of her. He knew very well she was always using the tube for going home from work, no matter how late it was. She never thought he would care for such a thing. Obviously, she was wrong. Just as in many things about him. She had to smile.

When she put her jacket and shawl on, she was suddenly nervous.

“The cab will be here in 10 minutes,” Sherlock said quietly when he looked at her.

They were standing in the middle of the sitting room, looking at each other for a few silent moments.

“Thank you… for the dinner… for letting me sleep…” Molly heard herself stuttering insecurely.

Oh God, I’m doing it again, she thought, embarrassed, and was sure Sherlock would be annoyed.

To her surprise, he just smiled warmly before replying. She couldn’t have known that at that moment, Sherlock, without even thinking about it, suddenly found her totally adorable - a word that never even crossed his mind a few years before, but now there were two people he associated this adjective with, each in their own way - one being Rosie Watson and the other Molly Hooper.

“I should thank you, for staying with me…” His voice faded, and his face grew serious.

“Molly… There is something I want you to know.”

She was a bit worried by his words. He stepped closer to her, having her at arm’s length.

“There is something I need to do soon… Something to help John…” he said, his eyes focused on hers.

“Do you need anything?” she asked immediately with care.

“No,” he smiled. “I just need you to know that however crazy, terrible or… impossible I will appear, whatever hurtful I might say or do, it will not be because I want to. I will just need to do it to help John, you must believe me…”

Sherlock put his arms on her shoulders while speaking, as if to make sure she clearly understood what he was saying. Molly was trying to read in his eyes. What she could see was concern, deep care and despair for her to believe him.

“I believe you…” she whispered with a hint of a smile.

He sighed and somehow reluctantly let his hands drop by his side again.

“Thank you…” It was all he managed to say.

“Why me, Sherlock? Why are you telling me?” Molly asked.

He looked away for a moment and smiled before looking back at her.

“Because I trust you with my life, and with all that is left of my heart…”

Molly gasped quietly and her eyes glistened. She swallowed, gave him a small smile and turned to walk to the door, when just after one step she halted, turned back to him and embraced him carefully, closing her eyes.

“I will never betray your trust, Sherlock…” she whispered into his chest.

Sherlock held her tight and closed his eyes exhaling loudly.

“And I’ve always known that, Molly Hooper…” he whispered into her hair.

She pulled back slowly and caressed his cheek lightly, trying to wash away his pain and grief. His gentle smile told her he didn’t mind it a bit. She smiled at him too and then walked out of the room while he followed her downstairs.

When the cab came, Sherlock told the driver Molly’s address and paid him in advance. Then he turned back to Molly.

“Thank you…” he said almost shyly before adding. “And don’t forget what I told you… Please…”

She could swear his eyes were begging her.

“I won’t,” she replied with a smile.

Relief was visible on his face when he opened the door for her before she slid into the cab.

“Oh and…”

“Yes?” Molly leaned against the half-opened window raising her eyebrows.

“Do you still want to help me?”

“Of course!” She didn’t hesitate a second.

He smiled insecurely.

“Could you… come in a fully equipped ambulance car to an address I’ll text you later in exactly.…” He glanced at his watch. “Two weeks from tomorrow?”

Molly’s jaw dropped slightly, but when she saw the insecurity and shyness in Sherlock’s eyes, she just laughed and shook her head.

“Sherlock Holmes, you’ll be the death of me one day!”

The corners of his lips turned upwards.

“That would be a shame, doctor Hooper, for I really enjoy your company.”

Molly’s smile faded for a few seconds but then widened again.

Sherlock tapped on the roof of the cab signalling the driver to move. He stood there watching the cab disappear and for the first time since Mary’s death, he couldn’t stop smiling.

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