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She had no clue what she had been thinking when she’d decided to do a spring cleaning while sick with a cold, but oh, did she regret it now. She had been bored out of her mind with daytime telly and films she had seen far too many times, and some part of her decided that if she was home she might as well clean and maybe spruce things up a bit. It was just a cold...what was the worst that could happen?
A disaster in the kitchen, a mess in the sitting room and her without enough energy to even grab a quilt from the back of the sofa she was currently curled up on, apparently.
The click of her door being unlocked should have alarmed her but honestly, she hoped whatever intruder was coming in to rob her blind would put her out of her misery. She was starting to think this cold might be some version of the flu instead and it was hell on earth when she felt the soft knitted blanket on the back of her sofa being draped over her, and with all the strength she could manage she opened her eyes, looking up at Sherlock. “Not a robber,” she said before coughing.
“No, I doubt a robber would find anything here,” he said, a slightly amused half-smile on his face.
“Kitchen is worse.”
“Well, then you sleep and I’ll take care of it,” he said, leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
“Why are you here?”
“Needed to think, wanted to run some things by you but you weren’t at Barts. Dr. Veerhoven told me you had called in ill so I picked up some things and came here. Didn’t realize I’d walk into a disaster.”
“Soup?” she asked hopefully.
He nodded. “A few different varieties. I’ll make one once I set your kitchen to rights.” He gently stroked her hair back and she let her eyes flutter back closed and drifted off to sleep.
She didn’t know how long she had slept, cozily curled up on the sofa with only a minimal bit of discomfort, but when she woke up again Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in her sitting room, sorting through the photos she had pulled out. “Mmm,” she said, stretching slightly as she realized she could smell tomato soup. She sat up and saw he had set a bowl of tomato soup with croutons and cheese on top on a platter with some water and a small foil package of medicine. “Thank you.”
“I took time to call John and see what might help,” Sherlock said without turning away from the pictures. “He recommended an over the counter medication to help with your cough and whatnot. And you like tomato bisque, right?”
“I do,” she said before coughing softly. “My mum used to make it when I was sick when I was a girl.”
“I didn’t know,” he said, turning to look at her.
“No, thank you,” she said, giving him a smile after she pulled her fist she’d coughed to away. “Thank you for cleaning up, too.”
“I may have rearranged your kitchen a bit,” he said. “But hopefully it will be better for you. And I’ll see about organizing these photographs for you. A scrapbook would be good.”
“I’ve thought about it, but never had the time.” She pulled the glass of water towards her, then put it back and opened the foil packet before picking the water up again and taking the pills, then finishing off the glass. “I’ll make this all up to you, I promise,” she said.
“There’s no need,” he replied, waving a hand holding the photograph he’d been looking at. “Though you could share the stories behind these photos, perhaps? It would make organizing them into a scrapbook for you easier.”
“I don’t deserve you,” she said with a soft smile.
“Never think that, Molly,” he replied. “I don’t deserve you.” He brought the box and sat next to her, and she leaned against him for a moment as he pressed a kiss into her hair. Then he showed her a photograph and she began to tell him the stories of her childhood that the photos represented, eating the soup slowly and enjoying the warmth of the soup and the warmth of leaning into Sherlock, and felt maybe today would be alright after all.