Molly, Only Molly (Sherlolly)

Chapter Twenty

We make it back to the first corridor. Sherlock keeps glancing behind him.

My leg is throbbing. I never thought getting shot would feel like this. I reach up to wipe some sweat off my forehead. Black spots are dancing behind my eyes. Sherlock looks down at me. "You're white," he says worriedly.

"Am I going into shock?" I ask, strangely excited about this.

He nods. As we turn the corner and run into the main building, he swears. I look away from his face. The dead butler is walking toward us. Sherlock runs faster. I hear footsteps following close behind, and grip Sherlock's coat collar with my shaking hands.

Finally, we're out. The pale sunshine has never felt so good on my face. The wind is not helping, however, and my shivering worsens. Sherlock holds me closer. He glances down the street. "Where are the taxis?" He mutters to himself.

He raises his hand just as one drives past. It pulls over to the curb. We get in. "The nearest hospital," Sherlock says, "as fast as you can."

It's surprising how worried he is. Both of his arms are around me, and my hands are enclosed in his. It's quite sweet. Abruptly, he lets go of me and begins untying his scarf. Gently, he moves my leg and ties the scarf tightly around the wound.

"Thank you," I whisper.

He wraps his arms around me again. "Molly."

I feel his breath as he exhales heavily.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

"Stop apologizing," I protest. "This wasn't your fault. I wanted to come with you." I could have gone without the kidnapping and the getting shot, of course, but I liked working alongside him. Should I tell him that?

I decided against it. I would just end up sounding stupid.

"Of course, I understand if you don't want to come on any other cases with me after this," he continues, "but you can be quite helpful at times."

I smile.

"Not to mention, you go along with what I tell you to, even if you find it stupid-"

I turn my head and kiss him on the mouth, surprising both of us. I've only kissed two other boys, and that was in Year Eight. It's clear Sherlock and I are unexperienced with this, as he awkwardly pats me on the back.

I pull away, feeling embarrassed. Sherlock is staring at me, looking like he did when he saw the robotic child for the first time. I touch my face. "Is something wrong?"

He clears his throat. "No, nothing's wrong."

I look back at my hands. All I've done is made things worse between us. Maybe we could have been friends, but now I've gone and messed that up.

"I'm sorry." My voice comes out strained.

He sounds dazed. "No, no. Nothing's wrong."

It only takes eleven more minutes to get to the hospital, but they pass by much slower than that. My hands are shaking.

Sherlock pays the driver when we get to the hospital, then scoops me back into his arms. I don't enjoy it as much this time- now I just feel uncomfortable.

He runs in, shoving his way through the crowd of worried looking people standing outside the door. At the receptionist's desk, he pushes his way to the front. "She's been shot," he says, his normally calm voice now breathless.

She looks up, raising her eyebrows behind her stylish glasses. "Shot?"

"Yes, like with a gun shot."