Chapter Text
A private – almost luxurious - hospital room. Muted light from a reading lamp above the single bed. Darkness outside the windows. On the bed, Sherlock is sitting on top of the covers, leaning against the raised head of the bed. He is still in the clothes he wore when the ambulance picked him up, and his left arm is still in the provisional padded sling that the paramedics bound it up in. But he's still on an IV drip, too, and looks almost comfortable, out of the worst of the pain. The wound on his forehead has also been cleaned and neatly taped. His legs are covered with a blanket, and he has drawn them up to make a reading desk for the large book on his lap. He seems quite absorbed in it, and even when there is a knock on the door and it opens to admit Molly Hooper, he takes a moment to raise his head and look across. She seems more surprised to see him than he to see her.
MOLLY (closing the door behind her): What are you doing here?
SHERLOCK (amused, with a glance at his left arm in its sling): Not sure. Something wrong with my hand, I’m told.
MOLLY (awkwardly): I didn't mean – I just thought you'd be in surgery by now.
SHERLOCK: They're still waiting for Professor Grunenberg. He's flying back from a conference in Stockholm, apparently. (Grumpily) Trust Mycroft to arrange that only to put it on the bill, too.
MOLLY (with a smile): It may have more to do with the fact that Professor Grunenberg is the leading authority on hand surgery in the Western world, you know.
SHERLOCK: Yeah, that means he's got a legion of disciples and assistants who could all do it just as well and at half the charge.
Molly shakes her head at him, then walks closer to the bed and sits down on the edge of the visitor's chair that has been placed next to it.
MOLLY: How's the pain?
SHERLOCK (in a different tone, calm and content again): Not worth mentioning, now. (With a nod at the IV drip) They're keeping me pleasantly hazy.
MOLLY (unsmiling): I hope you acknowledge that this is the exception that confirms the rule?
SHERLOCK (sincerely): I do. (After a moment) What about you?
MOLLY (quickly): I'm fine. (She does, in fact, look a little peaky – pale face, tired eyes.) Sally's been keeping me company, but now she's gone down to Weybridge to take care of Boss McGinty's business with Greg, so I thought -
SHERLOCK (surprised): Sally Donovan?
MOLLY: Yes. She came in the ambulance with us. But you were asleep the moment they closed the doors, so you never noticed. (She suppresses a yawn, then nods at the heavy book on Sherlock's lap.) Shouldn’t you be lying down?
SHERLOCK: Probably, but this is far too interesting. They got it from Grunenberg’s office for me. (He props the book up so Molly can see the cover. It is Green's Manual of Operative Hand Surgery.) They're going to do some absolutely fascinating things involving wires as fine as a hair, and all manner of -
MOLLY: Not that you'll see any of that.
SHERLOCK (sounding genuinely disappointed): Yeah, I know. Too bad.
MOLLY: By the way, Sally also had a call from Ashford Hospital to tell her that mere stitches will do for Bill. No permanent damage.
SHERLOCK (dismissively): Not that anyone cares.
MOLLY: I do, you know. I usually make my incisions with a little more thought, and with a steadier hand. I shudder to think about all the things that might have gone wrong. (In spite of her deliberately light tone, she literally does shudder.) I'm grateful that -
SHERLOCK: He’s the one who should be grateful that you didn’t send him to a slab in your own morgue straight away.
MOLLY: Yes, that would have been a bit strange, I admit.
Another shiver passes over her, again in an odd contrast to her now almost anxiously unconcerned tone. Sherlock, noticing it, frowns.
SHERLOCK (firmly): Molly. Don't give it a second thought. You were amazing. Absolutely amazing. Not only at the end, on the stairs, but even more so back in that office. You made it look absolutely authentic. Keeping your nerve like that - if I ever do lose a limb, I’ll make sure it happens somewhere in your vicinity.
MOLLY (drily): Very considerate.
SHERLOCK: No, really. You did exactly the right thing. Took charge, saved what there was to save -
MOLLY (rather bitterly): But it would have been a lot more brilliant, I suppose, if there had been anything that needed saving.
SHERLOCK: Oh, but that’s what I’m saying. If you hadn’t been so convincing, Bill and Alec would never have bought it. They’d have seen through it immediately, and gone would have been our one chance to make them panic and get us out of there quickly, and without too much damage to anyone.
MOLLY: I still can’t believe –
SHERLOCK: What, that I’d chop off my own fingers in a good cause? Or that you thought that I’d do that?
MOLLY: That’s what I’m still trying to figure out. Not easy, somehow.
SHERLOCK: But you were meant to believe it, Molly. I made you. You had no choice.
MOLLY (truly upset): That might just be exactly the point. You - you still play everyone, absolutely everyone, all the time, don’t you? John, me, Mrs Hudson… Could you even help it, if you tried?
SHERLOCK (with a wry grin): I don’t think so. It seems to run in the family.
MOLLY (close to tears now): John, he - he said – you know, back when -
SHERLOCK (quickly, clearly uncomfortable where the conversation is going): Never mind John. He just gives me a good thrashing, and then we move on.
MOLLY (with a grimace): And you think that’s healthy?
SHERLOCK (after a moment, lowering his gaze to the book on his lap): No, it - it probably isn’t.
When Molly doesn’t reply, Sherlock looks up at her again, searching her face.
SHERLOCK: You’re angry with me. You're genuinely angry with me.
Molly wipes her eyes with a hurried gesture of her hand.
MOLLY: Yes, I think I am. I – I know you just wanted to get us out of there, but – (in a rush) - but it was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen you do, and that includes the time when you came hurtling past my window at Barts on your way to the pavement.
SHERLOCK (gently): That wasn’t real, either.
MOLLY: It was, for everyone but you. (She hugs herself as if for comfort.) And this time – this time, I heard your fingers break, Sherlock, I heard it. So don't talk to me about “not real”.
SHERLOCK (matter-of-factly): Yes. But that was the result of a miscalculation. I assumed I’d knocked enough of those files askew to stop the drawer from closing completely, and to take most of the impact. I admit I got that wrong.
MOLLY: And all the blood?
SHERLOCK: That was intentional. “Razor-sharp edge” was a gross exaggeration, but thankfully it was jagged enough to tear the skin and produce enough blood to mask the lack of an actual life-threatening injury.
MOLLY (shaking her head): You should hear yourself talking about it like that, it’s -
SHERLOCK (quietly): Molly, if I was all right with it, why shouldn’t you be?
MOLLY (now sounding bewildered and vexed in equal measure): You saved me from a disgusting perv by making me believe that you were deliberately mutilating yourself in front of my eyes. How do those two things go together?
SHERLOCK (after a moment, no less puzzled): You’re angry with me, and still you held me when I cried. How do those two things go together?
Molly sniffs. A tear runs down her cheek. She is trembling in every limb now. Abruptly, Sherlock moves over on his bed, away from the side where Molly is sitting, and holds up a corner of the blanket.
SHERLOCK: Come here. Don’t be silly. Lie down, get warm. Things are catching up with you, that's all. You can continue being angry at me from here as well as from over there, for all –
MOLLY (bitterly, wiping the tear away): - you care?
SHERLOCK: - it’s worth. (Reconsidering) Not much better, is it? Sorry. Consider it unsaid. And now get in here before my feet get cold, too.
After a short moment of hesitation, Molly kicks off her shoes, gets up from her chair, climbs onto the bed and settles down at Sherlock’s side, careful not to crowd him, or even touch him in any way. She tucks her legs under the blanket and pulls it up to her middle. Then she leans back against the mattress and closes her eyes. Slowly, her breathing calms down to a more relaxed rate, and a little colour returns to her cheeks. Sherlock watches her attentively, eyebrows drawn together in concern.
MOLLY (after a moment): Sherlock?
SHERLOCK: Mmh?
Molly turns her head to look at him.
MOLLY: Can you really vomit on cue? Just like that?
SHERLOCK (amused): No. At least not without a severe concussion to start with. (With a wry smile) As it was, I was actually proud that I managed to hold it back until the right moment. Without that, it would have looked only half as dramatic, wouldn't it? Remind me to thank Alec for the solid groundwork.
MOLLY: Thank him? It looked awful, you taking that kick in the head. Even from a distance.
SHERLOCK: He may have overdone it a bit.
MOLLY: They weren't on your side, were they?
SHERLOCK: Well, they are again now. (With a sigh) But I really can't blame them. Mycroft remunerated them very handsomely indeed for their role in the magic trick at Barts, but then I was gone for years. And even after I came back, I was out of action for quite some time, and they were left hanging in the air. So when Bill probably offered them double my usual rate, they didn't think twice. (He yawns.) But that makes it sound a lot more generous than it was, really. I simply assumed that they'd be more use to Greg as Queen's evidence than in the dock. (A pause.) It might be a useful skill though, don't you think?
MOLLY (confused): What might?
SHERLOCK: Being able to vomit on cue. Without external stimulation, I mean.
MOLLY: Is that even physically possible?
SHERLOCK (seriously): Why not? With a lot of practice, almost anything is.
Molly pulls a face and makes a revolted little sound.
SHERLOCK: All right. Maybe not a good idea. (He gives his IV drip a sceptical look.) I suppose they're overdoing it a bit now, too.
MOLLY (after a moment): And did you know Bill was Boss McGinty when you went to Kew Gardens?
SHERLOCK: I was as good as certain, yes.
MOLLY: How?
SHERLOCK: Thanks to you, actually. You said it could be done in my kitchen. (He hesitates, then clears his throat.) Which was exactly how it started, of course.
MOLLY (dismayed): Right under your nose.
SHERLOCK (soberly): Right under my nose.
There is a short silence, until Sherlock resumes his tale.
SHERLOCK: So I met up with Bill last night, when I came home from Barts, and told him point-blank that I was going after Boss McGinty. The response I got was very, very eloquent. Well, it was Bill, so it wasn't, but you know what I mean.
MOLLY: How's that?
SHERLOCK: He tried to head me off, and when I didn't let him, he gave me a fair warning not to interfere.
MOLLY: What warning?
SHERLOCK: He told me to be scared. And he told me his girl's name. And then this afternoon, when he called me, pretending that he was on a hot trail, I knew it was a challenge, so I went to meet it.
MOLLY: You walked open-eyed into a trap.
SHERLOCK: No. I made myself the bait. Another idea you gave me, by the way, when we talked about going clubbing last night. Though of course I couldn't, in all conscience, use anyone for that purpose but myself. I'm sorry Bill decided to use you instead. That was something I truly didn't foresee, or I'd have taken measures to prevent it.
MOLLY (slowly): That’s… kind.
SHERLOCK: Yes, well - I really couldn’t see you in the role of a drug baron's bird.
MOLLY (with a short laugh): Oh, thank you. (Serious again) Speaking of birds, by the way - that story, you know. Of Birdy Edwards. Was that true?
SHERLOCK: Every word of it.
MOLLY: I didn't know that.
SHERLOCK: No, how would you?
MOLLY: Well, it's kind of the founding myth of your detective business, isn't it?
Sherlock turns his face away from her to look out of the window into the darkness outside. When he speaks, it is in a surprisingly harsh tone.
SHERLOCK: It's not a myth. It's a sad and sorry piece of real history, I'm anything but proud of it, and I'm very grateful to the man who was the sergeant in charge back then to have kept it to himself so far. You didn’t ever really believe that nonsense about the lady in the sauna that he tells everyone, did you?
MOLLY (dismayed): Oh.
SHERLOCK (still in the same bitter voice): I heard it all, and I can still hear the poor sod screaming even now. But I was in no state to go down and stop it happening, so the least I could do afterwards was tell the police where to look for the murderers, wasn't it?
There is a long silence.
MOLLY: I'm sorry I asked.
SHERLOCK (with a shrug): I suppose you had a right to know.
MOLLY: Still. (Attempting a lighter tone) But I'm happy that it ended well for the girl and her kid, at least.
SHERLOCK (sounding suddenly rather tired): Oh, but it didn't. Of course not. Those stories never do, you know.
MOLLY: Oh.
They sit quietly again for a while, both absorbed in their own thoughts, Molly looking sad, Sherlock simply worn-out.
MOLLY (quietly): Bill was right about one thing, though.
SHERLOCK: Hmm?
MOLLY: When he said you never do what you're told.
SHERLOCK: Why?
MOLLY (with a sigh): Because last night, at Barts, when you said you might find the answer on your doorstep, I said to you, “Don't stumble over it in the dark”.
SHERLOCK (after a moment's pause, with a drowsy smile): You caught me when I fell. You always do.
They turn their heads towards each other, and Molly returns his smile, making it the first they actually share since they parted in her lab at Barts the night before. Then Molly's phone in her pocket buzzes a text alert, breaking the spell.
MOLLY: Oh. I hope that's good news from Greg. D'you want me to look?
SHERLOCK: Sure.
Molly digs her phone out of her pocket and checks the screen. Her expression softens instantly.
MOLLY (delighted): Oh. Not Greg. A picture. (She holds the phone out to Sherlock.) Look. She is fine.
On the screen is a picture of Rosie Watson, snuggled in her father’s arms, clutching a half-empty milk bottle in strong little hands, eyes wide open and fixed on John’s face, the very image of health and happiness. Molly and Sherlock sit for a moment in silence, contemplating the small – and not so small - miracle, Molly smiling happily, Sherlock very still.
MOLLY (after a moment): She’s so got John’s eyes and Mary's chin, don't you think?
SHERLOCK (drily): And Mary's insatiable appetite for mixed pickles, and John's flatfeet.
MOLLY (glancing up at him): Really? How can you tell that already?
SHERLOCK: Oh, I can’t. (Slightly irked) What is it that always makes people want to see someone else in a child, as if it isn't a person in its own right?
MOLLY (with a shrug): Just finding more reasons to love her, I think.
SHERLOCK (still in the same disapproving tone): Now why would that be necessary.
Molly smiles, and they return to their silent contemplation of picture. Then Molly suddenly starts giggling.
SHERLOCK (puzzled): What is it?
Molly puts her hand against her lips, but to no avail.
MOLLY: Oh, I don't believe this. (A deep blush rises into her face. She tilts her head back, and draws in a long breath.) I'm in bed with you, and we're talking about babies.
SHERLOCK: Would you rather talk about something else? Like –
He looks around the room as if for inspiration.
MOLLY: No, no... it's fine, it's fine. (She runs her hands over her face.) Sorry. That just – happened a bit fast. All things considered. I mean - (She looks down at the phone on her lap, and after a moment raises her eyes again to meet Sherlock's.) There is something else we should probably talk about first. But you said it’s a long story.
SHERLOCK: It is.
MOLLY: And I’m guessing it’s not a happy story?
SHERLOCK: Quite the opposite, I’m afraid.
MOLLY: Then, to be honest, I’d rather start with something else. I - (Sherlock looks at her in surprise. She speaks in a rush again, as if to get the words out before she can think better of it.) I know Professor Grunenberg has a reputation of being able to work miracles, but it'll still be weeks and weeks til your hand is back to normal, and ...
SHERLOCK: And?
MOLLY: And I'd so love to hear it. Really.
SHERLOCK: Oh. (Another pause.) Well, all right.
He closes his eyes and begins to hum quietly, a hauntingly beautiful little melody that rises and falls in gentle, almost mesmerising cadences, intense and soothing at the same time. It's not long, over in barely a minute, but he reprises it immediately, then a third time, and after that, Molly picks it up and joins in. When, a short while later, the door to the room is opened by the night nurse to admit a still coated, slightly travel-worn and out-of-breath Professor Grunenberg, it is to the sound of Rosie's lullaby in a duet, a deep baritone and a warm alto, the two voices intertwining as effortlessly and naturally as the fingers of their owner's hands do on top of the blanket that covers them both, Sherlock's right and Molly's left, almost too beautiful to disturb.
THE END
February 2015 / February 2017