"Here we are," she sighed, leaning against the door of her flat where Sherlock was to say until he was well. He had tried to decline, saying his safehouse was perfectly adequate, but on this she was adamant. The alteration in her attitude did not escape him. She was putting on the kettle, having seen him safely to the couch, and he took a moment to read her. Not picking her apart, dissecting and exposing her to the harsh, critical light; he was trying not to do that to Molly any longer. But he watched her move, taking her in and memorizing her nuances.
She flitted around the kitchen delicately, lightly touching things as she went. Her hair looked like sweet molasses and honey, the golden tones shining in the early morning sun as it tumbled down her shoulders. He noticed the freckles standing out on her arms as she rolled her sleeves up, cracking eggs into a pan. She had delicate wrists, her whole frame on the slight side, not the kind of woman you would look at and expect to be a dead man's doctor, let alone the sole support of Sherlock Holmes.
He grimaced as the realization hit him again; Molly Hooper was all he had left. He had convinced all the others that he had died as a coward and a fraud. Well, maybe not. John's words echoed in his ear, from right before he jumped. John still believed in Sherlock Holmes. The dead detective.
"Sherlock?"
His mouth twitched, noticing Molly standing near him, arms folded over her chest. Angrily? No. Protectively, as if she was expecting him to lash out. "Yes, Molly?," he returned, his eyes closing as he listened to her voice. It was a soothing sound, low and soft.
"How many eggs do you want?," she repeated gently, not minding the half trance he was in, only concerned that she was intruding. He looked troubled, which made sense, only he usually tried harder to cover his thoughts. She wondered if he knew she could feel the pain in his face, feel it deep in her chest. She ached to fix it for him.
"Two, if you please," he sighed, knowing that she would make sure he was eating while he healed. He supposed it was for the best, though his already minimal appetite was at an all-time low.
She smiled faintly, relieved he wasn't going to fight her on this. Honestly she wasn't sure what to expect from him, he had been uncharacteristically gentle with her ever since he asked her for help, but she knew there was turmoil running through him. As she prepared his eggs and buttered toast she absently hummed, sunshine warming her back. Her thoughts travelled like she did, wandering from place to place. Sherlock's plate balanced in her palm, she walked with care, not wanting to spill the cup of tea she'd poured him.
He sighed heavily and she looked up from her feet, at the exact wrong moment. Tripping on the slightly rumpled rug, she flew face-first towards the floor, panic and burning embarrassment rushing through her. Before she could hit, however, Sherlock's long outstretched arm caught her, messily pulling her against him, tea and egg smearing across both of them. She squeaked and turned a startling shade of red, clamouring to pull herself away.
"Sh-sherlock," she stuttered, barely getting the man's name out, "what are you doing?" He smiled and sat back on his haunches, pulling her up with him. "Why, Molly," he countered in that beautiful baritone voice of his, "I couldn't very well stand by and watch you get hurt." Amazingly enough, she managed to blush deeper, feeling his long fingers splayed across her back.
"What does it matter?," she whispered, her eyes downcast. She could feel his breath on her cheek; he was still holding her so close.
His chest rumbled with a low chuckle as he tilted her head up to face him. Her eyes were huge, he noticed the shimmers of gold laced through the deep brown irises. Her pupils were dilated, her breathing erratic. Something in his chest tightened, he blinked slowly, savouring the words on his tongue before replying.
