Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He shouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t want him here. Yet, here he was, walking through the corridor of Barts hospital on the way to see her. He could hear voices as he got closer. John. Greg. Meena. Mike Stamford. They all sounded worried. He knew it then, that this was bad.

He knew it, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Molly Hooper in that bed. She looked so small, so fragile, buried in heaps of blankets and still as a statute. Her eyes were closed. Her chest was rising and falling evenly, but only with the assistance of the tube running down her throat. There were at least four machines around her, wires and drips and sensors were everywhere. She was swallowed by it all.

He must have croaked out a noise of despair without his knowledge because suddenly all the eyes in the room were on him. All barring the two he wanted to see the most.

“Sherlock.”

Meena’s voice emitted more sympathy than he cared to hear. He held up a hand, his gaze still locked on Molly. Suddenly, John’s hand was on his shoulder, and it was all too much. His eyes dropped to the floor as the first tear fell. He couldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here. And so, he turned around and walked back out of the room.

He heard footsteps begin to follow him, John’s he reckoned. But then he heard Greg’s voice, full of emotion Sherlock didn’t appreciate.

“Leave him. Give him time.”

He headed towards a waiting room. Because he couldn’t stay there, but he couldn’t leave either.

***

He didn’t know how much time passed. He didn’t know when he last ate or slept. He didn’t know much of anything other than the pain in his chest until he felt the space next to him become occupied. He tore his face away from his feet, ready to bite at whoever had chosen the seat next to him in an empty room, but the venom died when he looked into the face of Meena Singh.

“Hi, Sherlock.”

Her voice was hoarse, she had been crying. Not a good sign.

“Meena.”

“How are you feeling?”

He scoffed a laugh.

“Something must be really bad if you’re actually pretending to care about me.”

She smiled sadly.

“It’s been a really bad day I guess.”

He looked back down at his hands. There was too much emotion in her eyes. There was too much emotion everywhere he looked.

“What happened, Meena?”

“It was an accident.”

He gritted his teeth. That didn’t matter.

“What happened?”

“She was-,” she paused, “she was in there for longer than was initially thought. By the time they got her out, hypothermia had already set in.”

Sherlock clenched his fists. If the man responsible wasn’t already in custody, he would have killed him with his bare hands. What lunatic hacks into the hospital’s main security network and puts the whole hospital on lockdown just to stop them from unplugging his completely brain-dead mother? Yes, Sherlock conceded that he probably would do the same for Molly, but he would only prevent access to Molly’s room, not jeopardise the entire hospital. That man’s stupidity had engaged complete lockdown protocol, leaving Molly trapped in the lab’s walk-in chemical freezer. It took nearly an hour to get her out.

“She wasn’t dressed for it either, sod’s law.” Meena laughed again, but it was humourless. “The woman doesn’t leave the house without four layers and the one day she only wears one thin jumper under her lab coat, she gets trapped in an industrial freezer. Bloody British weather.”

It was true. It had been 30 degrees in London that morning, so Molly had dressed lighter than she normally would. If Sherlock needed any more reasons to curse this blasted heatwave, this was one of them.

“How bad is it?”

She sighed.

“It’s not good, Sherlock.”

He angrily wiped a tear from his face. He normally wouldn’t dream of being so openly emotional, but none of this was normal.

“I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Yes, you do. And so do I.”

“She wouldn’t want me here.”

“Of course she would. Sherlock, Molly loves you.”

Sherlock looked back down at his feet. He couldn’t bear this.

“Why do you say that? That she loves me.”

“Because it’s true.”

Her voice was so sure that Sherlock had to look at her again, and the intensity in his eyes almost made her flinch. He took a shaky breath. This was Molly’s best friend. Could she be right? He didn’t want to hope, but he also didn’t want to give up. Regardless of whether Molly loved him or not, he loved her. His gaze softened into uncertainty.

“You’re with her all the time. Does she ever … does she ever talk about me.”

“No. No, she bites my head off whenever I try to bring it up.”

“That makes me feel so much better.” His voice was laced with sarcasm.

“It should. She doesn’t talk about you because it’s too painful for her. That means she still loves you, Sherlock. Trust me.”

His eyes frosted over. When she thought back to this conversation, Meena would swear that she saw him switch off his emotions in one fell swoop.

“If she loves me, why did she break my heart?”

***

Sherlock watched people come and go for hours. He could see the door to her room from his seat. Mike would pop in on his every break and catch her up on autopsies from downstairs. John came back on his lunch and spoke to her about Rosie. Meena came and went in blurs, she visited between patients. Mrs Hudson came with a box of her shortbread biscuits – Molly’s favourites – but she couldn’t get any words out. She sat by the bed, holding Molly’s hand and quietly crying. She stroked her hair and pressed a motherly kiss to Molly’s forehead before taking her leave.

It was dark out now, gloomy and miserable. Typical. If it was like this this morning, then Molly would have worn more layers and maybe the hypothermia wouldn’t be advanced enough to put her in a coma. Visiting hours had long since ended, but no one was stupid enough to try to kick him out. He had moved into her room about an hour ago, taking a seat by her bed but against the wall. He couldn’t be near her in case she really didn’t want him here. But he had to stay. He could barely sit still; his legs were bouncing, and his hands were shaking. For the first time in a long time, he craved something else. Something stronger than a cigarette.

Noises to his left brought him out of his thoughts and he peeled his eyes away from Molly to see his father walk into the room. He felt his eyebrows draw together in confusion.

“Dad?”

“Hey, son.”

Sherlock stood to greet him and was wrapped in a hug by his father. He allowed it, he needed it. His father was always the most in touch with his emotions and maybe his advice was just what Sherlock needed.

“What are you doing here?”

“You think I’m going to stay at home when my favourite daughter-in-law is in a hospital bed and my youngest son is hurting?”

“Dad, we’re not-”

“Don’t give me that nonsense, she’ll be my daughter-in-law sooner rather than later.” Sherlock fell back into his chair at that, landing with a graceless thud. Siger took the seat next to him, a hand resting on his shoulder. “Son? What is it?”

“We … we broke up.”

“What?”

“A couple of months ago now.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I couldn’t. Everyone was so happy that one good thing had come from my sister’s schemes. I couldn’t take that away.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

Molly moved then. Her hand flexed and her eyes moved rapidly behind her closed lids. Her fingers seemed to reach for something. But then, as soon as it started, it stopped.

“What was that?”

“Muscle spasms. They said they happen.”

“Hmm,” Siger considered Molly as she flickered, “I’m not so sure.”

Sherlock shrugged; he didn’t want to believe it was anything else. He didn’t want to hope it was anything more than a simple muscle spasm. Hope hurt too much.

There was a moment of quiet. It felt longer than it was. Sherlock’s voice cut it so silently, his father almost didn’t hear him.

“Am I being foolish?”

Siger looked at him and was surprised to see tears in his son’s eyes.

“No, son.”

“But I can’t- I don’t- I don’t know what to do, what to say.”

“But you have things to say, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then say them. God forbid it, but if this is the last time you get to speak to her, you should say what you have to say.”

Sherlock went silent then, his eyes closed. Siger recognised this as him retreating into his mind palace. But he remained there with his son, his hand firmly gripping his shoulder to remind him he wasn’t alone. About half an hour later, Sherlock’s eyes slowly opened, and he turned to his dad, shocked he was still there.

“Figured it out?”

“I think so. Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re welcome, son. I’ll leave you to it. We’re staying in town for a while if you need us.”

Sherlock just nodded as his father made his way to the door. He took one last look at his youngest son, pressing his lips together and battling his own tears.

“She’ll be okay.” He whispered as he left. He didn’t know if he was telling Sherlock or himself.

***

Sherlock must have nodded off. He was emotionally and physically exhausted and that was taking its toll. He was about to straighten up, open his eyes, but then he heard nurses talking.

“Such a shame really.”

“I know. They got her back from that cardiac in the freezer, but now she gets to torture her friends and family for days.”

She had died down there, albeit momentarily. She had died and he wasn't here. It felt worse than being shot.

“Days? I’ve seen them last weeks.”

“In this state?” There was no response, Sherlock could only assume the other nurse nodded. “Either way, at this point it’s a matter of when, not if.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it then, he shot to his feet and stared at the woman who had just filled him with so much fear it was palpable. It tasted like blood in his mouth. It was sharp and uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- we didn’t-”

Sherlock could have deduced them to tears. He could have verbally ripped them apart and made them regret everything they had said. He could have stripped them down to their worst qualities there in a private room at Barts. He could have done it, but he couldn’t.

“Out.”

“Sir, I-”

“Out!”

It was all he could manage. The only word on his tongue. He needed them gone and he needed them gone now. How dare they say those things about Molly? Surely, they were wrong. They had to be. He hoped they were. He had never felt so torn before. Toeing the line between hope and despair.

Sherlock looked at them each in turn with more coldness in his eyes than ever before. He had not felt such immediate hatred for such ordinary people in quite some time. Molly had mellowed him. His emotions had softened him. He did not feel like being mellow to these women. They took their hasty exit and Sherlock flopped back into his chair.

His chest ached.

“You better not die, Molly Hooper. You can’t die.” He ignored how his voice broke. “You just can’t.”

***

He watched her chest rise and fall for a while. Then he watched more intensely as her eyes flew frantically behind their lids once more and for a moment it looked like she was going to fight the breathing tube. But the moment passed. Her hand was reaching out again. He stood. He went to hold it. And then he stopped. He let his hands rest on the railing of the hospital bed. The hospital bed she was only in because he wasn’t here. He sighed.

“I have things to say, Molly. Dad’s right. God, I have so many things to say to you.”

He grabbed his chair, the one that was as far away from her as possible, and pulled it to her bedside. He let his hands fall on the rails again.

“I’m angry, Molly. I’m angry at the man who put you here. I’m angry at those nurses. I’m angry at you for nearly dying, for actually dying. But, most of all, I’m angry at myself. I’m angry because I can’t do anything. I can’t help you. I can’t save you …”

He stopped, he couldn’t breathe. There was a lump in his throat determined not to shift. There were tears in his eyes again. His voice broke when he spoke, but he pushed on. He had to say this.

“I’m angry, Molly Hooper, because this might be the end. This might be goodbye and I can’t-”

A shaking breath. A few stray tears. A hand through his curls as his head fell. He looked at her again. She was no longer moving. It was almost like she was listening. He didn’t know if she could hear him. In a way, he didn’t care. In a way, he wanted her to hear him almost as much as he wanted her to wake up.

He took a deep breath, felt it fill him from toes to curls.

“I can’t hold you. I can’t hold your hand. I can’t run my fingers through your hair or stroke them down your arm in the way you like. I can’t kiss your forehead. I can’t kiss your lips. I can’t do any of those things, Molly. Because if I did … If I did, it would feel like a violation. It would feel wrong. Because we are not us anymore. You ended us and I still don’t know why. If we were still- if you hadn’t ended it, I wouldn’t have taken every single case that took me elsewhere. I wouldn’t have been in bloody Yorkshire when this happened and then maybe, maybe I could have helped you. But you did end it, and I wasn’t here. And I feel guilty, Molly. Because I wasn’t here for you.” He scoffed. “I don’t even know if you want me here. But I am. And I need you to not die. Because whether you love me or not, I love you. I love you, Molly Hooper. And I need you to not die.”

He nodded and sat back in his chair. Sherlock took a moment to wipe his tears. He couldn’t remember the last time he had let his emotions rule him so, but when it came to Molly, he never really did have control of his emotions. She penetrated his many layers of isolation. She told him he was as far from a sociopath as anyone can get. She explained that he feels everything the way he sees everything – so much and all at once. He had bigger feelings than other people, and Molly was helping him begin to understand that. And then she left. And he had never felt worse.

Time passed and Meena was suddenly in the room and in the chair next to him. She placed her hand on his forearm, it made him loosen his tight fists. She didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him, her hand on his arm, as they both watched Molly in silence.

Then, she moved.

She moved a lot.

It was not like before. It was not ‘just muscle spasms’.

Sherlock jumped up, lurching for her to make sure everything was okay. But Meena’s hands held him back.

“Sherlock, it’s okay.”

She was smiling, why was she smiling? What in this situation called for smiling?

Nurses and doctors filled the room, white and blue blurred before his eyes and the beeping of machines was deafening in his ears. Meena was pulling him towards the door, out of the way. He was scared she might pull him out of the room completely, so he was relieved when her grip loosened and he could stand frozen in the doorway.

“It’s okay.”

“What is it, Meena? What’s happening?”

His voice was panicked, hers was still calm. Still smiling.

“She’s fighting.”

He saw it then. Molly’s hands at the breathing tube, the struggling coming from her chest. The life in her fingers as they moved. The fight she put up against the restriction of the nurses’ hands.

Sherlock felt himself utter something like ‘oh god’ before he fell to his knees. Meena caught him halfway.

“Nuh uh, Mister. She needs you. You have to be strong right now.”

She hauled him back to his feet as the breathing tube was removed and a normal nasal cannula was looped around her ears and settled into place. Sherlock held his breath. It was like he was refusing to breathe the air around him, the air in the room that Molly needed more than he.

She stopped struggling and fell back into a sleepy state. Her eyes were still closed. But she looked alive. She looked more alive than she had since before she got trapped in that freezer.

Meena pushed Sherlock forwards and only then did he notice the doctor’s beckoning hand. He was calling him over to her bedside. Why him? Molly didn’t want him. Had she not changed her emergency contact, her next of kin? She didn’t want him.

His feet took him to her regardless, and he found himself staring into her newly visible face. Scanning her for any signs, anything at all.

Her eyes moved. She blinked. Then, they opened fully … and settled on him.

A weak smile spread across her face as she once again flexed her hand out, to him this time. It was definitely to him.

“Hey, babe.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, babe.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, scratchy and raw, but definitely addressing him.

His face crumpled. His eyes stung with tears and his heart felt like it might beat right out of his chest. He felt faint. Light-headed. Dizzy.

“Breathe,” Molly reached her hand for him again, “breathe, Sherlock.”

And he did.

He didn’t realise he had stopped. The force of it shook him. He felt like he hadn’t taken a real breath since the moment he first saw her in that hospital bed. But now she was awake, and she was talking to him, and she wasn’t angry, or upset at his presence. She was Molly, and she was okay. And she wanted him there.

He stepped forward, nearly allowing Molly to reach him.

“Hey.” She smiled again and finally, finally he let her take his hand.

She was weak, she couldn’t grip him as hard as he wanted her to. He wanted her to break all the bones in his hand just to prove that she was real. But she tugged him closer, and he gave in. He sobbed as he finally ran his fingers through her hair. He leant down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, and the way she closed her eyes resembled the vice around his heart.

“I’m okay.”

He felt her breath against his skin. It was warm. Her hand in his was warm. Her skin against his was warm. She was warm. She was alive.

He couldn’t help it then, his body collapsed over her. He tucked his face into the crook of her neck and shook with the force of his own tears. He felt her arms lace around his shoulders and hold him to her. He felt her lips kiss his skin. He felt her whisper his name like it was the only word in the world that mattered. She was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And she was okay.

***

Sherlock had been ushered out by Meena again but that didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore now that she was okay. As he made his way back to her room some time later, those moments replayed in his mind. The way she held him, the way she reached for him, the way she called him ‘babe’. He wasn’t a huge fan of the pet name, but it was endearing when Molly used it. He’d grown to like it in her voice.

He leant on the door frame when he returned, just watching her breathe for a moment. On her own this time, no tubes. Just Molly.

“Hey, you.”

She reached for him. He obliged, taking his place by her bedside. He didn’t take her hand though.

“Molly.”

Her eyebrows furrowed as her eyes searched his face. She was doing it again. Seeing him.

“You’re angry.”

“No.”

It was too quick. They both knew it was a lie before it even left his lips.

“You have every right to be angry.”

He swallowed back an emotion he daren’t dissect.

“I don’t want to be.”

She closed her eyes, gestured for him to come closer.

“Sit with me?”

He nodded and unlocked the bed bars, tucking them down the side. She pushed herself up a bit but struggled. Sherlock grabbed the remote by her head and manoeuvred the bed. She smiled her thanks as he sat facing her.

She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something but closed it again, opting instead to look at her hands, one of which she’d dragged back from Sherlock quite awkwardly when he didn’t take it.

“I’m sorry.”

They said it together.

“What?”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should have been here and then this wouldn’t-”

She put her hand on his then, both verbally and physically cutting him off.

“Sherlock, you’re not responsible for what happened to me. It would have happened whether you were here or not. And anyway, the reason you weren’t here is me.”

“Molly-”

“No, Sherlock I won’t hear it.”

She sounded so sure, so real, and he had to stop.

“Okay.”

She squeezed his hand.

“I’m the one who’s sorry.”

He looked away. She looked so sad.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you, Sherlock. If I could change it, I-”

Her voice broke and it snapped his eyes back up to hers. They were wet, tears had escaped them. She had looked so strong moments before and now she looked as broken as he felt. Complicated little emotions. He’d lost count of all the complicated little emotions of the last 24 hours.

He didn’t have a response. He could only press his lips together and watch her tears make their tracks down her cheeks. And then he did. He had the only response.

“Why?”

She gave a half sob, half laugh in response.

“Sherlock.”

She was trying to placate him. She probably didn’t want to do this here, but it was here or nowhere. It was now or … it had to be now.

“Please,” emotion took his voice hostage for a moment, “please just tell me why.”

She sighed and let go of his hand. The loss felt like what had been grounding him had now melted, he felt fragile enough to float away without it.

“I can’t, it’s not-”

He found his voice.

“I need you to tell me why you left me. I need you to tell me why you walked out that day.”

He remembered it so clearly, the day she left. It was entrenched into his brain as much as his own name.

It had been their six-month anniversary. Sherlock had cooked for her, a real homemade meal. He was proud of it. He had watched many YouTube videos on how to make the best Sunday Dinner and followed the best bits of each – the bits Molly would enjoy the most. There were candles on the table. There was music playing. It was his, in fact. She was always asking him to record himself playing for her and he finally did. He had brought her favourite blanket into the living room and piled it on the sofa, along with the many cushions Molly enjoyed sitting with. He had a selection of no more than five things they could watch together – because Molly loved being the one to choose what to watch but only when there were fewer choices than the entire selection on offer. He had changed his bed sheets. He had tidied. He had waited patiently for her to get home. Well, what he’d hoped would be her home. He was planning to ask her to move in over dinner. And then their first night as co-habitants would be spent watching mysteries on the telly and exploring each other in bed (he hoped). That was his plan.

And it worked, to a point. He helped her out of her coat and gave her time to shower and change while he prepared the last bits of the food. He kissed her. He waltzed her over to the dining table, delighting in her little laugh. He’d almost burst with pride at how much she had loved the food. It was better than her dad used to make, she’d said. He couldn’t have asked for a better compliment.

Then, he stood to get dessert from the fridge. Molly wasn’t a fancy dessert girl. She was more of an ice cream tub and spoon girl. So that was what he had. He tried to hide his nerves when he placed it on the table in front of her. Tried.

“What is it? What have you done to my rocky road?”

“Nothing.”

“Nonchalance doesn’t suit you, my love.”

He had preened at that one. He much preferred that one to ‘babe’.

“Just eat it.”

“So it’s not poisoned?”

“No.”

“Not chemically tampered with?”

“No.”

“Not one of those things where it looks like it’s real but is actually cake?”

“No, Molly. Stop being ridiculous and eat your ice cream.”

“Okay, okay!”

He’d watched carefully as she took the lid off, held conversation as she’d eaten hers and he his. He waited for her to notice it. The key taped to the bottom of the lid. When she finally did, her face fell into an emotion Sherlock could not read. But it was not a smile. Shouldn’t she be smiling?

“Sherlock, what’s this?”

“A key.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Her voice was shaking, he could remember her voice was shaking.

“Why have you taped a key to my ice cream?”

“Molly, don’t be obtuse. It’s a key to here, to Baker Street.”

He remembered the silence.

“It’s a key, Molly, because I’d very much like for you to move in.”

“Move in?”

“Yes. This is my home. You are also my home. It seems only logical to bring the two together.”

“Sherlock…”

He’d seen it then. Hesitation. Fear. Fight or flight behind her eyes.

“What? What is it? Have I done something wrong?”

She had stood. Shook her head. Dropped the lid with the key in it onto the table as if it were on fire.

“No, Sherlock. No, you haven’t. I just, I can’t-”

“Of course you can. Why can’t you? You spend a lot of time here already, so I’d just like to make your visits a bit more permanent. I want you here.”

Tears had fallen then, and Sherlock had never been so confused.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t do this. I can’t … I just can’t.”

After that, she grabbed her coat and bag and fled from the flat. She avoided his calls and texts for three days. He received a break-up text shortly after. He just wanted to understand. His eyes were still locked on hers.

“You’ll laugh. Or you’ll be angry.”

“Molly, just tell me.”

He put his hand on hers then. Perhaps he shouldn’t have, but it seemed she needed grounding as much as he did. She sighed.

“It was good, wasn’t it?”

He hummed his agreement.

“And that was it, that was the problem.”

“That it was good?”

“Yes.”

“Molly, forgive me, but I’m not following.”

She turned her hand to lace her fingers with his. He fought the urge to close his eyes. He hadn’t been able to hold her hand in two months.

“It was too good, Sherlock. We were too good. It was all going too well.”

“Right?”

He still wasn’t following. She steeled herself with a breath and a squeeze of his hand.

“I kept waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for things to go wrong.”

“But it didn’t … it didn’t go wrong.”

“I know. That’s the point. I didn’t want to keep waiting. I couldn’t take that step with you because I was too scared. I was scared we couldn’t live together, that we’d argue constantly, or we’d never see each other with work and your cases, I was scared you’d get bored of me and I just … I couldn’t wait for the shoe anymore.”

“Your analogies confuse me.”

She laughed a bit through her tears.

“I broke my own heart, Sherlock. I broke my heart, so you didn’t have to. So you didn’t get the chance to.”

“You broke mine too.”

“I know. And I’m so sorry. It was foolish. It was so silly of me. But that’s not an excuse. I was just scared.” She squeezed his hand again. “I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

She could barely speak through her tears, but Sherlock got the message. He couldn’t say he blamed her. Yes, he was upset. Yes, it would take time to heal. But she was here with him. She was here and she was not dead. That’s what mattered.

“Molly, I-”

She held up the hand that wasn’t in a vice grip around his.

“I know. I know I can’t expect anything from you, and I don’t. If you want to go, you can go.” He looked at their hands, dragging her eyes there too. She seemed to realise the contradictory nature of her actions because she let go before Sherlock even had time to blink. “I just wanted to say sorry. You deserved better.”

He cut her off by grabbing her hand again.

“Molly, that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

Her voice was a whisper. He could see her trying to douse the flames of hope that shone behind her tell-tale eyes.

“No?”

“No.”

He shuffled closer and placed one large palm on her cheek.

“I was going to say, I love you, Molly Hooper.”

A fresh round of tears filled her eyes again, but she smiled this time.

“You do?”

He stroked her hair back off her face, it was sticking to the tracks of her tears.

“I do.”

“I love you too, Sherlock Holmes.”

It seemed to happen in slow motion, the way his hands cradled her face and hers wound into his hair. The way his lips descended on hers as they’d wanted to for months. The way her tears wet his cheeks and their breaths hitched together. The kiss was slow and loving, they melted together. It felt like forever. They had forever.

He kept his forehead against hers when the perfect kiss finally ended.

“I forgive you.”

She pulled back just enough to search his eyes, he smiled at her shocked expression.

“If I were in your position, if I were in love with someone like me, I’d be waiting for the other foot to drop too.”

“Shoe, Sherlock.” She laughed, it felt like heaven to his ears. “Other shoe.”

“Right.”

A moment of peace settled over them in that hospital room, a moment with each other, foreheads pressed together and hearts beating as one.

“So, you’ll move in with me?”

He could feel how pathetically hopeful his expression was, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes, I’ll move in with you.”

She dragged his lips back to hers and he was more than happy to indulge in her once more. He stood when she pulled away.

“Where are you going?”

“We are going home.”

“Sherlock, I can’t. I haven’t been discharged.”

“Well, yes. But just sign an AMA. I have left the hospital many times without being discharged.”

“Yeah, and how well did that work out for you?”

He stopped. He took his coat off the one arm he had managed to sling through it. His face must have given his dejection away because hers softened into an inviting little smile with worried eyebrows and loving eyes. She held her hand out once more.

“Come on, get in.”

He looked sceptical but climbed onto the bed as she moved over for him. She batted his hand away when he tried to help. She pulled him into her and rested his head against her chest. He wrapped an arm around her waist, enjoying the solid feeling of her warm, breathing body. When she began running her fingers through his hair, he relaxed against her. He felt months of tension leave his body as he sunk into the surprisingly comfortable hospital bed and moulded himself to her body. She must have felt it too as her hum of approval vibrated through him.

“There you go. I love you.”

She kissed his head, and he sighed before nestling into her more, basking in the comfort she gave him. He could forgive everything this woman ever did, so long as she continued to love him. Sherlock Holmes could do many things but living without the love of his life was not one of them. He needed her like he needed oxygen.

“We’ll go home soon, I promise.”

He shook his head before leaning up to catch her lips in a kiss he tried to pour his heart and soul into. He could feel it passing from him to her.

“I am home, Molly. My home is right here.”