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The whimpering on the baby monitor caused Molly to lift up her head. Sherlock was not in bed with her, which was unusual these days, and it didn’t sound as if he was in the room with Lydia, either. She hadn’t gotten much sleep that evening, probably because Sherlock wasn’t beside her, but she dutifully got out of bed and made her way upstairs to Lydia’s room. The fact that she wanted to go tend to her daughter, even in the middle of the night on only a few hours rest, filled her with a rather unspeakable joy. She had never really thought she would get to this point, but the medication and the therapy seemed to be working.
Lydia’s nappy was dry, and picking her up and rocking her seemed to have no effect, so it looked as though she was hungry, and that meant a trip to the kitchen. It took Molly a moment to realize it was pitch black, far darker than usual, and she stilled. It could mean a number of things, not all of them good. She tried to muffle the sounds of Lydia’s cries by pressing her closer to her chest, and then crept back towards the cricket bat that Sherlock kept by the top of the stairs. “Sherlock?” she called out.
“Molly,” she heard him say in a relieved voice.
She dropped the cricket bat and went to turn on a light to get a better view of her husband. It struck her then how cold the sitting room was, and when she turned the light on she could see why: every window was wide open, and Sherlock was perched on his chair, shirt and trousers off, hugging his knees. In all her own problems she had forgotten about his and her heart ached to see him like this.
“Sherlock, I’m holding Lydia right now, and she’s hungry,” she said soothingly. “Can I keep the kitchen light on to make her a bottle? Just that one.” He nodded his head slowly and she switched the light in the sitting room back off, plunging it into darkness again. She could easily make a bottle for their daughter with just the light over the sink, and she did so quickly. She thought for a moment, and then decided it was best if she laid Lydia down with the bottle in the bassinet in their bedroom. There she might be out of harms way if things got tricky.
She took Lydia to the bedroom and got her settled, and then came out to the sitting room. She had left the kitchen light on when she left but it was off again now. She knew the area like the back of her hand and with the lights from the street she could make out that Sherlock had gone back to his chair. “Molly,” he said. “You’re here.”
“Yes,” she said. “Do you want to make sure?”
She moved closer when he nodded. Before, when he’d come back, before she’d had Lydia and slipped into her post-partum depression, he’d get like this sometimes, where he would zone out and forget he was back in London, back with her. She always wondered if he was with the other Lydia in his mind, or in any of the other places he had been taking down Moriarty’s organization. He never talked when he was in one of those states, he just reached over to hold her close. He must have been up getting something to eat or drink and panicked that she wasn’t there. She hadn’t even thought to ask how long it had been since the last episode, having been so wrapped up in her own issues.
When she stood in front of him he placed his hands on her hips, his fingers gently touching the bit of pudge she’d gained from the pregnancy she hadn’t tried losing yet. He pushed her shirt up a little so his fingers could touch her skin, and gently slid his palms upward so his hands rested on her waist. “You're real,” he said, looking up at her.
She nodded, reaching over to gently run her fingers through his hair. She’d found the action calmed him before and helped pull him out of an episode faster sometimes. “I am,” she said. “You’re back in London, back at 221 Baker Street. we’re married and we have a beautiful daughter and both of us love you. You’re safe, Sherlock. I’ll keep you safe.”
After a moment he planted his feet on the floor and settled onto the chair and then pulled her onto his lap, keeping her close. She stayed silent, letting him do what he needed to do to feel better, pulling her legs in and curling up on him. After a little while, she felt him kiss the top of her head. “Karachi,” he said.
“Hmm?” she asked.
“I was in...Karachi. Rescuing Irene Adler. It was hot, and I attacked the men about to kill her with a sword. I...”
She nodded and nuzzled his cheek slightly. “You cared a great deal about her, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Part of me still does.”
“I can share,” she said. “As long as she can.”
She could feel him smile against her forehead. “What if I don’t want to be shared?”
“Too bad. We’re women. We make all the decisions. Irene and I can work out a custody agreement of some sort. We’ll figure something out.”
He nudged her head up slightly until she was looking him in the eye, and he reached over to caress her cheek. “I don’t want to be shared, Molly,” he said in a more serious tone. “I care for her, but I love you.”
She nodded. “I love you too, Sherlock. I wouldn’t have married you otherwise. For better or worse, remember?”
He nodded as well. “For better or worse,” he said before leaning in and kissing her softly. She knew there may be more nights like this for the rest of their marriage, but if he dealt with her and what she put their family through, she would help him through every night like this for the rest of their time together.
For better of for worse, after all.