A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Six

[darnedchild]

Summary: Molly was happy with her life. She's got a job she loves, a nice flat, her cat, and she's even begun dating again (now that she's over her infatuation with Sherlock, mostly). Then Sherlock dragged her out for a few hours of dress up and undercover work, and everything started to go to hell in a hand-basket.

She agreed to accompany him to one more event, purely as a distraction; and in the process ended up with an unwanted house guest (Sherlock's ex Janine), the attentions of a vengeful stalker, and a return of those pesky feelings for Sherlock Holmes.

Rating: M (There will be smut in later chapters)
A/N - Written for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang. This mammoth fic is over 114k words and complete in seventeen chapters.

Chapter Six

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

"And that's when Sherlock punched him in the face." Molly couldn't help but smile a little at the memory.

"He didn't." Janine looked toward the kitchen where Sherlock had disappeared the moment he'd finished helping Molly limp to the sofa. He'd barely slowed long enough to say hello to Janine, and to advise her to direct all questions to Molly as he had a few things to attend to. "Our Sherlock?"

That was a little strange for Molly to hear, having herself and Janine linked together regarding Sherlock like that. She supposed it was true, though, in a way.

"You should hear the story about the time some men broke into Baker Street several years ago. Bad enough they forced their way into the building, but one of them hurt Mrs Hudson. John said they ended up needing to drive that one off in an ambulance. Greg--a friend of ours from Scotland Yard, he was at John and Mary's wedding, you may not remember him--he told me that Sherlock claimed the guy 'fell' out of the window into Mrs Hudson's rubbish bins. Several times." She thought back to Sherlock and Chapman's fight at the Barrett estate, and the way the detective had no trouble defending himself. "Anyway, he's, uhm, well, Sherlock is tougher than he looks."

Janine gestured toward the bare foot gingerly cradled in her lap. "That doesn't explain this, though."

Molly was slouched on the sofa with Janine perched on the coffee table in front of her, carefully stabilizing Molly's foot and ankle. The ankle was extremely swollen, most likely sprained in Molly's opinion; and judging from the additional swelling and bruising, she guessed her little toe was broken as well.

"I can explain that." Sherlock reappeared with a bag of frozen peas in one hand and a kitchen towel in the other. He knelt next to Molly's leg, and wrapped the peas in the towel before gently placing the makeshift ice pack on her foot. Molly hissed and tried not to jerk away. He waited until she was sure she was going to be able to withstand the cold before he sat back on his heels.

"Molly didn't appreciate Chapman calling her names and manhandling her, any more than I did; but she had to take a few seconds to return to her feet after he pushed her to the ground. I beat her to the punch. By the time she was up, he was down, and as he kicked out in a rather pathetic effort to disable my knee, my dear Molly punted him as if he were a football."

Janine's eyes went comically wide. "You didn't?"

"She did," Sherlock affirmed.

"Two years on the woman's football team at uni. Muscle memory is an interesting thing." Her ankle was at that horrible tingly stage where the ice pack was extremely uncomfortable, but not unbearable. All things considered, Molly thought she was holding up rather well.

Sherlock lifted the ice pack and peeked under it. "Your ankle will be fine in a few days, but I'm nearly positive you've broken a toe."

"I concur with your diagnosis, Doctor Holmes." She saw him glance up as if checking to see if she was taking the piss. He actually did look worried about her, which made her want to reassure him. "I'll live. Trust me. I will, however, need to splint the toe. If you wouldn't mind, there's a medical kit on the-"

"Top shelf of the linen cupboard. I know."

"Do I even want to ask why you were in my linen cupboard?" It had been a long and difficult day, and Molly didn't have the energy to be irritated with him. She leaned her head back at an uncomfortable angle against the sofa cushion, and resigned herself to the inevitable conclusion that Sherlock had probably stuck his nose into everything in her flat at one point or another. Including her lingerie drawer. And her nightstand.

Oh God, anywhere but the nightstand.

"Mrs Hudson offered to wash my sheets, so I gathered them for her."

"Oh, well, that's fine, then."

"I thought so," Sherlock offered as he disappeared down the short hall that lead to the bathroom and the only bedroom. Yet again, he either didn't recognize that she was being sarcastic, or he simply didn't care.

Molly plucked at her wrinkled gown, wondering what she could have possibly done to deserve any of this, when she caught Janine looking at her strangely. She scrambled to explain, "He keeps some sheets here. In case he needs to spend the night. Because mine are too scratchy. We don't--he doesn't--not together--I sleep on the sofa?"

She was fairly positive that she sounded less and less convincing or coherent the more words continued to pour out of her mouth.

Janine grimaced and patted Molly's leg, careful not to jostle her. "Oh, sweetie. Been there, done that."

Molly really had no clue how to respond to her.

"So you kicked Francis. Somewhere painful, I hope? And then what happened?"

Before she could answer, Sherlock returned. "Long story short, your Francis will probably have some bruised ribs in the morning. We were all very politely asked to leave and then escorted off the premises by two gentlemen who barely fit inside their very expensive suits and a large dog that appeared to be made mostly of teeth and angry growling."

He held the med kit out of reach when Molly tried to grab it. "Not until John gets here, I'm afraid. No use wrapping everything up when he's just going to unwrap it again."

"You called John?" She couldn't believe he would drag his friend away from his family for something so simple.

"No. I sent him a text from the car. He's caught up in traffic, but he's on the way."

"Sherlock, I am a doctor-"

"You told me yourself," he interrupted before Molly could develop a full head of steam. "You work with the dead, and John works with the living. Do you not remember that conversation?"

"Are you seriously using my own words against me?"

"Yes. Did it work?"

She ignored him and reached forward to adjust the ice pack.

Janine put a throw pillow on the table and helped Molly lower her foot onto it. She handed the TV remote to Molly, then stood up and gestured toward the kitchen. "Since it doesn't sound as if any of us are going to get to bed anytime soon, how about you find something to watch and I'll go make us something to snack on?"

While she was gone, Sherlock set out to make Molly comfortable. She realized he must have felt responsible for her current predicament, because he was being uncharacteristically considerate of her needs.

He carefully removed the shoe she had still been wearing, then tossed it into the corner with the other one. He ignored her grumpy, "Those cost more than I make in a week!"

With a challenging gleam in his eye, he toed off his own dress shoes and kicked them in the same direction. "There, feel better? Mine cost more than yours did."

He took off his tie and shoved it haphazardly into his tuxedo jacket pocket, then removed the jacket itself and draped it over the back of the sitting room chair. After a moment's hesitation, he bent down and pulled off his socks, tucking them into another jacket pocket. He dug his toes into her carpet and smirked. "Now we're on the same footing."

Molly groaned in response. Janine, who had just returned with a bowl of popcorn and several bottles of water, laughed.

"Don't encourage him!"

Sherlock continued to look far too proud of himself, and Molly wished she had another throw pillow in reach that she could toss at his head.

"Ugh, I need to get out of this dress. Janine, I know it's a lot to ask," Molly began.

"Not a problem at all." Janine unloaded her snack supplies on the coffee table before reaching out to take Molly's offered hand.

Sherlock quickly intervened. "No."

For just one horribly exciting moment, Molly thought he was volunteering to help her himself.

"She stays on the couch until John has checked her over."

"Sherlock! I'm itchy and tired, and I want out of my pyjamas."

He turned the full force of those pale eyes on her, and Molly could feel her spine melting back against the sofa cushion even as her mouth opened in protest once more. "Please?"

"No. John said it would be best to keep you immobile as much as possible, until he's had a chance to examine you."

"For a broken toe?" That sounded overly cautious, especially for a man who had been an army doctor.

"I may have been a little . . . vague . . . in describing your injuries?"

"Oh, Sherlock, you didn't?" She had visions of John bursting through the door, closely followed by a pair of EMTS, or worse.

"Just humour him, Molly. It's not often Sherl worries about someone other than himself. Give him his moment."

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something scathing in response, but he bit back his words; probably because Janine's snipe coincided with furthering his own agenda.

Still, Molly thought it was a bit harsh. She'd seen some of the lengths he had gone to in order to protect his friends.

"Fine." She looked at the popcorn and bottled water, and grimaced. "But I'm going to need the pint of chocolate mint in the freezer if you're going to force me to stay like this."

Janine grinned. "On it."

By the time Janine came back with the ice cream and a spoon, Sherlock had eased onto the sofa beside Molly, and partially turned her so that she was leaning against him. It was a less awkward angle than she'd been seated in earlier. Her ankle was still elevated, but now she had proper back support. He put his arm along the back of the sofa so she had something to rest her head against if she wanted. Toby had finally decided it was safe enough to join his mistress on the sofa, and he curled up on the cushion next to her. It was rather nice and cosy, actually.

Other than the throbbing ankle and broken toe.

Molly watched Janine carefully, looking for any sign of jealousy or distaste on the other woman's face. Just because Molly knew this cuddly side of Sherlock's was just a momentary aberration brought on by guilt (and possibly as a means to show Janine that she was wrong with her little comment), didn't mean that Janine automatically understood there was nothing going on.

If she was upset by the display, she didn't show it.

Then again, she was probably familiar with a touchy-feely Sherlock, so all of this might seem normal to her. Mrs Hudson said he was very different with Janine when they had been together.

"So, what are we watching?" Janine asked as she arranged herself in what had temporarily become 'her' chair.

After a few minutes of deliberation, they agreed to watch an old black and white adaptation of an Agatha Christie novel.

The movie had just begun to get interesting when Sherlock barked, "She's guilty. Who faints at the first hint of accusation unless she's hiding something."

Molly nearly jumped at the unexpected exclamation.

"Of course she's guilty. They're all guilty. That's the point." It was obvious from the sharpness in Molly's voice that the pain was growing steadily harder to ignore, and her exhaustion was apparent in the way she was leaning heavily against Sherlock. His arm tightened around her, gently rearranging them both to make her more comfortable.

Janine admonished Sherlock, "Shhh, you promised no deductions until at least the first dead body."

Sherlock huffed and glanced at his watch. "Shouldn't we put the peas back in the freezer?"

Janine passed the popcorn bowl to Molly once it became apparent that Sherlock wasn't going to do it. "No, no, it's fine. I'll do it. No need to get up," Janine teased as she grabbed the bag and took it to the kitchen.

There was an urgent knock on the door; then John burst in, out of breath. "I'm here! Did you keep the leg immobilized? Did the bone break the skin? As soon as I've assessed her, we are leaving for hospital. No arguments, Sherlock!"

He froze just inside the flat, and finally got a good look at the domestic scene in Molly's sitting room. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Molly's hurt." Sherlock's tone made it clear that he was seconds away from commenting on John's lack of observational skills. He carefully gestured toward her injured foot, trying not to jostle her.

"Please, just look at my foot and reassure him that I'll live so I can splint my toes, and take something for the pain," Molly pleaded. She couldn't remember ever sounding so pathetic before.

"Damn it, Sherlock, you made it sound like she broke her leg and was threatening to go into hysterics. When I tried to get more details and advised you to take her straight to A&E, you completely ignored me. Did you call for an ambulance like I told you to?" John stomped across the small room and dumped his satchel next to the coffee table, continuing to glare at the unapologetic detective the entire time. "Sorry, Molly, I apologize for letting him distract me."

"Don't. He's a prat."

Sherlock tensed behind her. "You're obviously delirious with pain, so I'll overlook that. And no, I didn't call for an ambulance. Who summons an ambulance for a broken toe?"

"You are an arse." John jabbed his finger in Sherlock's direction, then slid around the table to get a better look at Molly's foot. "Did you say you haven't taken anything for pain management?"

"Bossy Boots refused to even let me take any paracetamol."

"If we can all move past the name calling? I knew you were on the way, and I didn't want her to take something that would interfere with your suggested treatment."

Molly rolled her eyes. "I told him I'm a doctor. I told him you didn't have to come all the way out here just to diagnose a broken toe."

"Well, I'm here now, so there's no harm in letting me take a look, is there?" John dropped to the floor next to the table and examined her ankle and toe, gingerly manipulating the metatarsals and delicate phalanges. Sherlock reached for her hand to give her something to hold on to as she winced in pain.

"I don't suppose you'll agree to going to emergency for an x-ray tonight?" John took one look at her face and shook his head. "No, I didn't think so."

"Molly-" Sherlock started in that low tone that usually had her melting into an agreeable mess when he said her name, but tonight she wasn't having any of it.

"Shut it, Sherlock. You don't get to talk. Or have you already forgotten about dragging me to Baker Street when you thought you needed stitches, and refusing to even consider going to hospital to get it looked at?"

John's eyes flicked from Sherlock to Molly and back, a bemused expression on his face. "Right. Looks like a simple fracture. X-rays would confirm it, but it will probably be fine to wait until tomorrow if you're sure you don't want to go tonight."

"I'll go in to work early in the morning, and visit X-ray if it will make you feel better." Molly would agree to just about anything if it meant dealing with her foot and getting to bed.

"It would. I'll go ahead and splint it, and I'll give you with something for the pain to help you sleep tonight. I can leave a script in case the pain becomes unbearable, if you'd like; but you should be able to manage with an OTC pain reliever as long as you don't put too much strain on the sprain or the break."

"Thank you, John." She wasn't sure if she meant for the pills, or for rushing over when he thought she was really hurt, or for just being John. All of them, probably.

John opened his satchel and began to sort through a zippered pocket. After a moment he handed her a small packet of pills clearly labelled 'Sample'.

Janine had returned from the kitchen during John's examination, and had been quietly standing out of the way. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Oh, hullo, I didn't realize anyone else was . . . Janine?" John did a double take when he recognized her.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. Once Molly's settled, I hope you'll have time to catch me up on you and the family. It's been ages since I've managed to talk to Mary."

"Yeah, sure, I could . . . Yeah. Did Sherlock bring you?"

Molly saw him dart a glance at Sherlock's tuxedo trousers and Molly's gown, then at Janine's casual lounge wear, visibly confused.

"I did. But not tonight. She's been staying with Molly."

It was clear that John would have liked more details; but rather than explain, Molly simply took her pills and nodded. "Yep. Houseguest."

"I didn't realize you two even knew each other?"

Sherlock snapped, "Enough with all the small talk, I'm sure Molly would like to get to some rest. Can't we move things along?"

John looked contrite. "Right. Let's give those a few minutes to kick in first, then we'll take care of the painful bit. In the meantime, would anyone care to tell me how Molly broke her toe?"

"I kicked an arsehole in the ribs." It was rather blunt of her, and she grimaced as soon as the words left her lips.

He laughed, until he realized she was being serious. "Well, was it worth it at least?"

"I think so," Sherlock answered.

Janine nodded in agreement. "Definitely."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

She'd lain in bed for an hour or more, trying to force herself to sleep.

After John wrapped her ankle and splinted her toes, he'd asked to speak to Sherlock.

Janine had taken that as a cue to help Molly get ready for bed. "It's the least I could do. It was my ex that caused this in the first place."

It took forever to brush out her hair, but Janine had assured her that it would be better in the long run to break up the tangles and hairspray, and she'd have an easier time falling asleep.

She'd heard John and Sherlock leave ages ago. The sound of the front door closing had been faint; but even in her half-drowsy state, she had clearly recognized what it had meant.

That Sherlock had left without saying goodbye, again.

Her usual sleep shorts and vest were exactly what she needed after the hours spent wearing the pretty gown and the constrictive undergarments required to keep all of her parts in the optimal place and shape. The pain killers were doing their job, dulling the ache to a much more manageable level; although, they made Molly's mouth feel horribly dry and cottony.

Perhaps that was why she couldn't sleep?

A glass of cool water seemed more and more necessary the longer she considered it.

With only a single sharp gasp of pain the when she put her injured foot down wrong, Molly managed to ease her bedroom door open and hobble down the hallway from her bedroom in the dark. There was no point to turning on the lights and disturbing Janine on the sofa; Molly had wandered through her flat in the middle of the night plenty of times.

She was halfway across the sitting room when a shadow detached itself from the dark shape of her sitting room chair.

"Why aren't you in bed?"

Molly only just managed to bite back a scream as she recognized the voice emanating from the tall form moving toward her.

"Are you trying to scare me to death?" she hissed.

"Quiet, or you'll wake up Janine," Sherlock grumbled in return. He reached her side and grabbed her arm, just above the elbow. "John suggested it might be a good idea to have someone around, in case you needed anything tonight."

"Well, lucky for me that Janine's here, then. Go home, Sherlock."

"When I said that John suggested someone should be around, what I meant was that John specifically told me it was my responsibility to make sure you were properly looked after tonight, as it was my fault you were injured in the first place. I would have argued that the fault lay more with Francis Chapman than with myself, but he left before I had the chance to clarify. Therefore, I'm stuck in your inadequately cushioned chair until tomorrow. Have you considered getting it reupholstered? Or possibly binning it entirely and finding something that wasn't originally designed as a torture device?" He tried to use his grip on her arm to urge her back down the hall toward her room.

Molly resisted.

Even though they were whispering, Molly thought she heard Janine beginning to stir. She tugged her arm free, and shuffled past him toward her original destination. "Not here."

Once she was inside the kitchen, she flipped on the light and spent a moment squinting until her eyes adjusted. Sherlock was somewhere behind her, but she didn't particularly care to see at him at the moment.

"Stop whinging. I'm not making Janine move, and I'm not sleeping in the damn armchair just so you can placate John from the comfort of my bed. Go home or buck up, buttercup." For some reason, Molly found that irrationally funny. She snorted, then immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, startled at the unexpected sound. It must have been the drugs John had given her, they were making her light headed and loopy.

She caught sight of Sherlock leaning against the door frame, smirking at her. He silently watched as she opened a cabinet and pulled out a plastic tumbler. "We could share your bed."

Molly dropped the tumbler and saw it bounce off the countertop toward the ground. Somehow, Sherlock managed to cross the tiny space and catch it before it hit the floor.

"Don't even joke about something like that!" Molly snatched the offered cup out of his hand.

He shrugged, clearly not fussed one way or the other, and returned to his earlier position in the doorway. "I wasn't whinging. I was merely stating the obvious. The chair and I are not compatible for a comfortable overnight stay. I didn't ask you to give up your bed, Molly. I wouldn't even have considered it had you offered. Not tonight."

She eyed him warily, then nodded. "You're right. You didn't. I apologize."

Molly filled her tumbler with water from the tap, and began the return trip to her room. She paused just in front of him, waiting for Sherlock to move out of her way so she could get through the door without being forced to squeeze past him.

He stood there, looking down at her with a tender expression on his face. After a long moment, he leaned toward her. Molly was positive he was going to kiss her on the cheek, as he'd done several times in the past. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes began to flutter closed in anticipation, and she clutched her cup tighter against her chest. Then there was an audible snick as he flipped the light switch and the room went dark.

By the time Molly fully opened her eyes again, Sherlock had stepped back into the sitting room and out of her way. "Goodnight, Molly. Sleep well."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

He was falling.

"You're wrong, you know. You do count."

He'd asked for her help, and she promised him anything. Everything. He'd told her what to expect, what would happen; all the scenarios he'd worked through and their possible outcomes. It had all been planned and plotted already. All he needed was her help with the grand finale.

"You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

Mycroft had his people waiting in various locations around Barts. A different specialized group for every contingency. All waiting for a signal. Waiting for Sherlock to die.

"But you were right. I'm not okay."

They'd told her this was the most likely probability. That he would jump.

That he would fall.

That's why she was waiting here, specifically. A pair of faceless strangers with her, and the body bag that held the star of the second act. The doppelganger.

If one of the other scenarios happened, they'd have to scramble to get to another location; but this was how Sherlock envisioned it, and this was where she would wait.

"Tell me what's wrong."

They'd gone over everything half a dozen times, and Molly had run through the details in her head half a dozen more. The timing would have to be perfect. Once the text came through, the hand-picked cast of bystanders would jump into action. Crowd control, appropriate shock and horror reactions, blocking Sherlock from public view until he could be switched with the body double.

She and her two accomplices would have just minutes to prep the body to mimic Sherlock's demise. Then it--he--would be ready to switch for the real thing.

Her part wouldn't be over yet. Just faking the autopsy reports wouldn't be enough, obviously; that's why they needed the doppelganger. They couldn't risk another pathologist getting too close. But even with Molly handling the autopsy, there would have to be something to be seen and touched, something tangible. There would need to be a real body, actual organs to be examined, blood work sent to labs (the police would want to know if he'd been drugged, after all). And it would be up to Molly to make sure there were no discrepancies in his records.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

She thought her heart had stopped when Sherlock said those words. And once he'd explained what was happening, she'd known he was right.

Sherlock Holmes needed to die so that his spectre could go forth and bring down Jim Moriarty and his organization.

Everything began to speed up, moving lightning fast in her mind.

Now, here she was. Waiting.

Her stomach hurts. Her hands are shaking. It's nerves, she knows that. Once the signal comes, she'll be fine. Calm. Steady. She has to be. She can't mess up. Sherlock is depending on her.

He's depending on a lot of people.

Too many.

What if someone makes a mistake?

What if it was Sherlock?

What if it was her?

Any little mistake could prove fatal, even the tiniest miscalculation.

The phone she had clutched in her hand vibrates, a one word text.

Molly rushes to the window, heart in her throat. She sees him fall past her, just as he and Mycroft had planned. But something is wrong. She feels it deep in her chest where her heart has already begun to break.

Molly whimpered--twisted in her bed until she was tangled in her sheets--as her unconscious mind fought to reassure her that it was just a dream.

She wants to scream, feels it beginning to build at the back of her throat.

Looking down from the window, she can see him. He's splayed on the pavement, a broken doll. None of the chosen background players have had a chance to reach him yet. He's still. Too still.

They'd planned to fake his death, gone over what would be necessary to make it look real in the eyes of a trained doctor. There should have been corpselike stillness. But this is different.

This is wrong.

Her heart is beating too hard, too fast. It's getting harder to breathe.

She should be prepping the body to simulate the impact from the fall; blood and tiny bits of brain matter artfully applied to a dead canvas. She should be doing her job. Instead, she's glued to the window.

John is there.

There's blood.

She expected that. It was part of the plan.

It's spreading.

It wasn't supposed to spread like that.

This is wrong.

Molly wasn't to be seen. She's to stay out of sight, so that no one can guess her involvement. She was never supposed to be on the main stage.

She pushes past the two faceless men working on the body double, and runs out of the building without a second thought.

Part of her thinks--hopes--that she's being silly, but she skids to a halt at his side and falls to her knees regardless. Someone tries to hold her back, just as they're trying to hold back John. Someone she vaguely recognizes, one of the men Sherlock had spoken to the night before.

She pulls free and checks for his pulse, needing to reassure herself that it's all theatrics.

She needs to help him. She's a doctor, she can help him.

She can't think. Nothing makes sense. Her training is gone, years of med school knowledge missing as if wiped it clean.

She should be doing something. She should be saving him.

Her hands hover over his body, uncertain as to what she should do. Where she should touch. Finally, out of desperation, she leans down to confirm that he's not breathing.

This is wrong.

The blood continues to pool around his broken form, soaking into the fabric of her trousers. It's all over her hands.

Blood.

Sherlock's blood.

Her throat was burning when she woke up. She could hear the echo of Sherlock's name in the room, and it didn't take her long to realize that it must have been her own screams that roused her. Someone was holding her, rocking her gently in the darkness. His long fingers were softly petting her hair; his breath warmed her temple as he continued to repeat, "It's all right, you're safe. I'm here."

Her bedroom was dark, but the door was open and the light in the hall was on. Someone, Janine from the silhouette, stood in the doorway. She was fidgeting, her weight shifting from foot to foot. "Is she okay?"

Sherlock stopped rocking her, although he continued to hold her in his arms. "She's fine. Molly's just had a nightmare. Haven't you, Molly?"

She could only see part of his face in the light from the hall, but it was enough to know that he was looking down at her. Watching her. "Ye-yes. I'm sorry for waking you both."

"No worries." Janine was trying to sound cheerful, but it was clear she was concerned. "Do you need anything? Anything I can do? Maybe a glass of warm milk?"

Before Molly could answer, Sherlock pulled her tighter against his chest, pressing her cheek against his dress shirt. His body heat began to chase away the cold dread left over from her dream. "Everything's under control now. You can go back to sleep."

"If you're sure?" Janine hesitated.

"Absolutely. Goodnight." Sherlock's tone was polite but firm. After a moment, Janine nodded and walked away.

Once the doorway was empty, he gently lowered Molly back down to her pillow, as if she were a precious child. "Better now?"

Molly nodded, more than a little embarrassed that she'd woken everyone up. She'd had nightmares before, perhaps a handful of times that she could remember over the years. Hell, she'd even had this particular one before, or at least something very similar it. She'd almost always been alone before, though. There had been one time when she'd still been with Tom, and he'd slept through the entire thing. Even when she'd sat up in bed, gasping for air with her heart in her throat.

Yet again, she blamed the pills John had given her. If she hadn't been groggy and drugged, she might have woken up before . . . the end. Before the blood.

"Want to tell me about it?" Sherlock's voice was low and soothing, soft enough not to carry to Janine in the sitting room. Deep enough to make Molly want to weep so soon after seeing him unnaturally pale and still in her dream. "Your nightmare?"

"No."

He was still hovering over her. As emotional as she was right now, his concern was nearly enough to break her. "Was it about Chapman? Because he won't touch you again."

"No, it wasn't him."

Sherlock was still and quiet, and she foolishly thought he was going to let it go. "Was it about me?"

Molly rolled away from him, laying on her side with her back to him. She couldn't do this now, couldn't look at him without wanting to reach out and reassure herself that it had all been a dream. Sink her fingers into his hair and pull him close, taste his breath with her lips to prove that he was alive and well. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tugged at the covers so she could burrow deeper into the warmth of her bed. "I'm tired. I think I'm ready to go back to sleep now. Goodnight, Sherlock."

There was a moment of silence, then she felt the bed shift as he stood up. Molly held her breath until she heard him turn the hall light off and then the quiet click of her bedroom door being closed. She exhaled in relief, and felt the tension begin to ease out of her body as she relaxed.

Then the bed dipped again.

Sherlock slid under the covers and curled his body against her back. Before she had a chance to react, he had his arm draped over her waist and was pulling her snug against him. "Tell me about your nightmare. I heard you calling out my name. I want to know why. Tell me what happened."

Molly tried to shake her head and realized that he'd somehow managed to tuck her under his chin. "I don't want to."

His voice rumbled in her ear. "I know you don't, but you'll feel better once you let it out. It will only eat at you if you hold it in. Tell me. Let . . . let me ease the burden for a little while. You can be strong, independent Molly again in the morning."

She bit her lower lip, feeling her protective walls beginning to crumble under his gentle onslaught.

"Please," he whispered against her hair.

She drew in a deep breath and held it until her lungs began to burn, then exhaled in a rush. "I couldn't help you."

"When?" Something about the way he asked and the tension in his body against her back made her suspect he already knew what she meant.

"When you came to me, asking for my help, at Barts. Everything was planned, every detail in place, but something went wrong." She had to stop to swallow several times, afraid that she would start crying before she managed to finish if she wasn't careful. "I saw you fall. Right past me. You fell, and then you were so still."

His fingers began to move against her stomach. Not much, just soft little circles that helped pull her focus away from the memory of the dream.

"There was so much blood on the pavement. And I tried to help you. I tried to save you, but it was too late. There was nothing I could do." She drew in another deep breath, one that could have been a soft sob if she didn't have his touch to ground her.

"But you did. You helped. You kept me safe," he reassured her. Sherlock was quiet for a moment, long enough for her to begin to feel drowsy again. Then his breath stirred the hair around ear as he spoke, "Not just that day at Barts, either. You've kept me safe and alive more times than you can possibly know, Molly."

His words confused her. She tried to turn in his arms, but he tightened his hold around her waist and refused to let her.

"When I was shot, I heard your voice. I saw you in my mind palace. You told me what I needed to do to stay alive long enough for the doctors to save me."

"That wasn't me," Molly protested. "That was you. That was your knowledge of-of anatomy and gunshot wounds, wearing my face."

"Oh, Molly," he rumbled indulgently. "You don't understand, do you? Yours was the first face I saw, your voice was the first my mind sought when I began to panic. The first and the most important. Anderson came in a bit later. And Mycroft. And, strangely enough, Moriarty."

"You are not helping."

He huffed. "I beg to differ. You aren't shaking any more, and you no longer sound as if you're going to break into tears at the smallest provocation."

"Get out." Even though the words were cranky, she made no move to extract herself from his hold.

"You're not listening to the meaning behind what I'm saying, Molly. I was terrified that I was truly going to die, more so even than that day I launched myself from the roof of Barts. I was dying, and you were the one my subconscious latched onto as my biggest hope for survival. You brought me back, gave me the fortitude to listen to the others and survive. It wasn't the first time you've appeared in my mind palace to offer advice; although never for something so vital before, thankfully. I doubt it will be the last."

His fingers stilled their movement, and came to a rest against her stomach. She could feel their soothing warmth through the thin material of her vest. "Do you honestly think I would have chosen you to play such an important role if there was any doubt that you would keep me safe?"

Molly felt like crying again, for a wholly different reason this time. Instead, she reached down to cover his hand, lacing her fingers between his. "Thank you, Sherlock."

She felt his lips ghost against her hair before he replied. "You're welcome, Molly."

When she woke up the next morning, he was gone.


Part 1 / Part 7