He'd said it so matter-of-factly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, like everyone would have expected it. (Apparently Mycroft had, for some unknowable reason. Or was he merely being a meddlesome little shite?) Of course, the night before they had shared her bed, but that was decidedly different. It was unexpected, unplanned. And she'd been crying, and it had never happened before (right?) and wasn't going to again (so she thought). And...and...
"Molly."
She jumped, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks. "Yes, Sherlock?" She had been wandering distractedly about the place and avoiding interaction as she ruminated.
"Come to bed."
Molly stiffened and turned toward him, appraising carefully. He sat on the left side, nearest the window. She watched him read case file after case file, seemingly engrossed in the information. But he'd spoken to her, which meant he wasn't completely focused. Sherlock was almost always focused. He was only distracted when he was anxious about something which couldn't be relegated to the wayside.
"No."
Sherlock looked up from photos of a sneering Moriarty to the tiny woman at the foot of the bed. "No, Sherlock," she repeated, understanding washing over her and settling calmly into her gaze. "You are not to blame."
He stared, the surprise completely non-evident on his face. At least it would have been if it was literally anyone else looking at him. He turned back to his reading with a sharp downturn of the head, acting as if she'd not spoken. But speak she had, and to speak she would continue. Her voice was timid and flitting as always, like a Jenny wren looking very, very trepidatiously for the right branch to safely rest upon and hide from the cat, but the conviction she felt on the subject was evident, cat be damned.
"I volunteered. I wanted to help, Sherlock. I knew it was dangerous. I chose this." She stopped for a breath, and continued in an even quieter, Jenny-er voice. "I chose you."
The Awkward Detective stayed stock-still, unsure of what to say, how to breathe, or even if he should move his eyes from the spot on the page he'd picked to not really look at. He had no clue what the procedure was for this scenario, and while he could speak with confidence he didn't always feel, he couldn't convince Molly of something she knew was inaccurate. She was too smart for him.
How embarrassing.
"You keep teasing and reading and talking in such an infuriatingly calm voice, trying to act normal. You're trying to distract me, keep me from being afraid. But it's not just me, is it? You're trying to keep yourself from fear. You want me in the same room so you can watch over me. You are sleeping next to the window, Sherlock, because you want to shield me in case someone is outside. You're trying to act normal, Sherlock, but you aren't normal. You aren't calm, you always sleep on the right side of the bed, and you can't keep me from seeing what's going on.
"I know you are scared. I know your arm hurts. And you still have at least one broken rib. You can't take everything on yourself anymore." Her voice rose half an octave and she stepped closer to where he sat. "You need me. You said you needed me. And I am here, I want to be here. Let me help," Molly pleaded. "I won't go to town for a kettle, but I can boil water in a pot. And I can read some of those files. And -" she wiped a few rogue tears away, "and, I'll stop crying... I just... I don't like being a burden. I want to help. I can help. Please, Sherlock."
How does she know all this? How does she know, and why does she care? He heard the ache in her voice, the worry and the anger and that.... that undercurrent again. She came to him suddenly, crawling onto the bed to sit next to him with those eyes that kept tearing away everything he built so carefully. His blood burned as she grabbed one of his hands in her two. The emotion that had been eluding him in her voice nearly drowned him as she finally caught his gaze. A deep, unquenchable thirst in the recesses of his soul suddenly awakened.
