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Sometimes when they would lie together in their bed and Sherlock had finally drifted to sleep, Molly would wake up by his frantic movements interspersed with a low mumbling. She could never quite understand what he said, but she didn’t need to to know where his unconscious mind, unprotected by his mindpalace, had drifted off to. So she’d take his hand and clutched it to her chest, hoping that it would serve as an anchor to his present. He wasn’t on the run anymore, nor was he dead. He was back in London and she was there with him, through better and through worse. As such, aided by Molly’s steady heart beat and rise and fall of her chest, Sherlock would fall back to a dreamless, but pleasant sleep, with Molly watching over him until eventually her eyes too fell shut