Chapter Text
“Your assistant has been in a car accident. She asked that we call you to tell you she’s alright, but she’ll need to be in traction for some time.”
He had all the details at his fingers in moments: she’d been coming back from an assignment when the car she was in was hit by a lorry. It hadn’t been a large lorry, so the accident hadn’t had any fatalities, but both the car’s driver and Andrea had been taken to the hospital with broken bones. The driver had a concussion but otherwise had been allowed to leave. Andrea would need to stay in traction for at least three to four weeks, but she would still be able to walk once her broken hips and leg were healed. She hadn’t wanted him to worry.
But worry he did.
He wasn’t so much the “ice man” everyone knew him as. He had a soft spot for both Andrea and Vanessa, his other assistant who spent most of her time on surveillance of Sherlock duties. He cared for his cook, who by now was almost like a part of his family. And...Molly Hooper.
That was a conundrum and a half.
He was fairly sure she had no feelings left for Sherlock that were romantic, but that didn’t mean she suddenly harbored romantic feelings towards him, at least. There had been the situation with Tom that had petered out after John and Mary Watson’s wedding, and the requisite problem that had been Magnussen and Moriarty’s message had worn her thin, but she’d stayed Sherlock’s friend throughout. If she still had lingering feelings for his brother she hid them well.
His own relationship with her had been as secret keepers that Sherlock was still alive. It had started when he’d stop by for tea at her job to check-in. Soon it was tea at her house, then supper. Most Wednesdays he would still go to her home, now, a routine that had only been interrupted by Tom’s arrival in her life. He’d not been sure how he felt at the time but he knew now that jealousy had reared its ugly little head, and he was actually glad at the turn her feelings had taken for the man at the wedding. They’d made a go of it for two more weeks before calling off the engagement.
That was one more week than he had expected, but then, he really wasn’t a study of human romantic nature, was he?
He’d paid his condolences and they’d had a bit more than tea that evening, and she had kissed his cheek for the first time and called him a dear friend. He’d been flummoxed by that kiss and the fact she’d done it many more times since. When Sherlock killed Magnussen he’d shown up, weary and downtrodden, and she’d invited him in with a stout dinner and a bottle of whiskey.
He’d almost admitted he loved her that day,
And now here he was, a sheet at least to the wind after two full snifters of brandy to contemplate how fragile the human life was, how lucky he was that his favored assistant wasn’t hurt worse, and what to do about the state of his life.
One more snifter later, he was all set to tell Molly Hooper exactly how he felt about her, damn it all. If she didn’t feel the same he could easily go back to the Ice Man pose, but he needed her to know before anything or anyone else happened to her, his brother included. It was imperative he tell her now, while he was still bold enough under the influence of alcohol.
Or else it may never happen, and that would be even more of a shame than the chance of being rejected, wouldn’t it?