Note to readers: I know, I know I've been gone for far too long, but I've had a lot of shit to deal with and AS levels and all kinds. I've also had huge mental block and still do, so any ideas would be greatly appreciated. But know that I am so so so so so so sorry and I'm cowering under my desk now in fear of your wrath. Please let me live.

The world was nothing but a blur of colours and lights. Molly felt like she was floating, weightless and empty. How much morphine had they given her? The aches began setting in. Too much, it seemed. Her own breathing sounded too close, like it was inside her head. She tried to sit up but found that she couldn't. Where was she? Not in resus, by the smell of things. The hum of the hospital sounded distant and there didn't seem to be anyone else around – she was in a private ward, or an empty one.

Molly experimented with her fingers. They moved slowly, but at least she had control of them. Her toes moved too and she tensed and relaxed her muscles, moving methodically upwards until she reached her right arm. Blimey, that was painful. The painkillers were wearing off, that's for sure. Why was she here? Molly followed back everything she could remember. She remembered walking towards St Bart's. She remembered not being able to see through the tears as she stepped out into the road. She remembered someone calling her name and the screech of breaks, and then nothing.

Until now.

A shadow moved in the corner of her eye and she looked at the grey space that she assumed was the door. Her vision was a little blurry but she could make out a distinct figure. She could recognise him anywhere.

"Sherlock?" She whispered. She could hardly hear her own voice, so she didn't expect him to respond. His expression was unclear. Was he worried? Was he angry? Did he even care? She couldn't tell. Molly heard his feet shuffle against the floor and he edged towards her.

"The doctor said you'll be fine." He said. His voice echoed harshly and she winced. Did he mean to sound that cold? She had nothing to say in reply and so she concentrated on focusing her vision. He stepped closer again. If she didn't know him better she would have said that he was scared of her. It was a complete role reversal – she was the wolf and he was the startled deer. It felt absurd.

"I'm not going to bite you." Molly's attempt at a joke was met with a displeased "humph" and the detective pulled a chair to her side. He sat down in his usual manner – peaceful but alert.

They remained silent for what seemed like an eternity before Sherlock spoke.

"How do you feel?"

"Weird. All… airy." Molly replied.

"Lightheaded-ness is a common side effect of morphine."

"I know that." She snapped. Well, it was slightly slower than a snap, but it was meant to sound harsh.

"Are you in any pain?" He asked, more gently than before. She could see his face now and he did seem concerned. But he also seemed patronising. She didn't like it, but she was too weak to fight.

"Not if I stay still. I just feel numb." There was a surprisingly tense pause.

"Inside or out?"

Molly froze and looked at Sherlock in amazement. That was the most insightful thing he'd ever said.

"Well – I – both, I guess." She replied quietly. He forced a small smile and nodded.

"I'm going to go and let John know what's happening." Sherlock said, standing up, "I won't be long."

"You don't have to stay-"

"No." He interrupted, "I want to." They shared a smile and he headed towards the door. He paused in the frame and looked down at his shoes, scuffing them gently. There was something he wasn't saying, she could tell, but she didn't want to push her luck.

He turned back and opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped himself and walked away. Molly was left alone in a stunned silence. She had a really bad feeling about this.


Sherlock marched down the corridor, away from Molly's room. He hadn't said anything about… about it. He didn't feel that he could. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him. Until then, he would wait. The hospital corridors flowed neatly into one another as he walked towards the reception and within moments he was there.

"Lestrade was called back to the station." John explained, standing up to greet his roommate. Sherlock barely responded. He didn't particularly care. There was an awkward pause, "How is she?"

"Fine. You can go home now." The detective replied. He wasn't in the mood for talking. He turned away to head back the way he came, but John stopped him.

"How's the baby?"

He said nothing, but walked away as quickly as he could.

Note to readers: Yes, it's crap I know. And very short, but it's the best I can without ruining the story. Be prepared for a very long wait. And sorry again. I love you all for the support you've given me though.