The Woman Who Counted (A Sherlolly Tale)

Chapter 8

Author's Note: This chapter has been changed since its original upload four years ago. If some details don't line up with unedited chapters after this one, then just wait. They, too, will be edited.

She had wandered around for forty-five minutes, looking down alleyways and going as far as to phone Mycroft to explain the situation. He promised to send a note out to the Homeless Network to keep an eye out for him, but it was hardly needed. She found him stumbling out of a pub, hand smoothing hair away from his damp forehead.

"Sherlock!"

He stuck up a finger, nearly falling forward as he attempted to step towards Molly. "Shhh, they mustn't know my name."

"God, you're drunk."

"Am I? Really? Hadn't noticed." His speech was slurred, his laugh high pitched and giggly.

"Come on," she muttered, locking her arm with his, "I'm taking you home."

"To Baker Street?"

She sighed, the two ambling down the pavement. "Would that I could."

She ended up hailing a cab, which took the two back to her flat where Molly helped Sherlock up the stairs and into her bedroom. He toppled face first onto the bed and Molly pulled the duvet over him, turning on the overhead fan.

"Right then, go to sleep," she told him. "You're going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow."

"I'll be fine," he slurred, "I'm always fine."

"Yeah, you're great." She flicked off the light and exited the room.

She thanked God that she had the next day off. When she awoke the next morning she heard the vomiting and groaned. It was going to be a long day.

She walked to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and grabbed kitchen rolls before knocking on the bathroom door. When the only answer she received was horrible retching she tried the doorknob, finding it unlocked, and walked into her tiny bathroom.

Sherlock lay with his face on the toilet lid, his eyes closed. Molly ripped off a couple of sections and folded them. She knelt beside him and began wiping at his mouth. He startled, eyes opening, then relaxed again.

"You're alright," she told him, tossing the roll into the bin and wrapping more around her hand as he proceeded to vomit. She wrinkled her nose as she prepared to wipe his mouth again. "Christ. How much did you drink last night?"

"Enough."

She wiped at his mouth. "More than enough I think."

He sat up, lowering the lid and flushing before laying his head back down. He looked disgusting. His curls were sticky with sweat. Of course he smelled foul, but being in forensics Molly had smelled worse. Still, she breathed through her mouth.

"Done?"

He nodded twice. "For now."

She tossed the roll into the rubbish and stood, offering Sherlock a hand. He looked at it for a moment before deciding it best to take it, allowing her to help pull him to his feet.

She led him to the front room and helped him to the sofa. She then retrieved the bin from the toilet and set it by his head - just in case. Sitting on the arm of the sofa, she looked down at him. Despite her lingering anger with him her heart sunk at the image of him lying there. It was absolutely pitiful.

"Need anything?" she asked softly, resisting the urge to place a hand on his leg to comfort him. Despite him being very out of it she knew he wouldn't be a fan of such intimate contact.