Sherlock100 57/100 #85 She
Title: Second Chance
Author: marill_chan
Prompt: #7 Painful for
25deductions and #85 She for
sherlock100
Summary: Sherlock will never walk again. Molly/Sherlock
Warnings: None
Rating: PG15
Spoilers: Series 2
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock.
My table: 25 Deductions Table
My other table: Sherlock 100 Table
A man sat in a small, darkened room, bent over his brother's bedside. His neck and back had begun to trouble him from sitting in this position day after day. He only left at night for six hours to sleep and shower. All his meals were delivered to him in the private hospital room. When his brother was still and silent, he would check the email on his phone, or type up a few documents on his laptop. Otherwise, Mycroft was completely devoted to watching over Sherlock.
...
Two weeks earlier...
Molly's name came up on Mycroft's phone. He wrinkled his forehead and answered.
"Mr. Holmes? Mycroft?" said Molly's voice, even more nervous than usual. "It's Sherlock. We had this idea...a plan. It went all wrong and he's hurt. But...I promised that whatever happened, I would keep him hidden. Please, you have to help."
Mycroft felt ever closer to the impending heart attack that was going to take him someday.
"Is Sherlock with you now?" he asked.
"Wh--yes. Yes, he's..."
"I have your location. Stand by." Mycroft ended the phone call and put his face into his hands, indulging in a brief moment of concern and pain. Moments later, he started to make phone calls to arrange to hide and heal his brother.
...
It had been a spinal injury, Mycroft reflected, as he watched the lines on Sherlock's face deepen with expression. He would probably never walk again, according to the best doctors on Mycroft's staff. Mycroft was willing to believe them, a fact he would hide from Sherlock at all cost.
Sherlock's eyes fluttered. Mycroft sat on the edge of his chair, hands hovering over Sherlock's. Would Sherlock remember everything? There hadn't been any brain damage as far as the tests could show. But memory loss was a possibility, at least in the short term. He'd been sleeping for two weeks and would be disoriented.
"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered. "It's fine. Take your time."
Sherlock shook his head, eyes blinking and squinting. He made garbled sounds deep in his throat, reminiscent of territorial growls.
Mycroft gracefully took his hand. "There. I'm here. You'll be fine."
Sherlock's eyes tracked his brother. Mycroft felt his insides twist at the confused and frightened look in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a couple of seconds before opening them again to look at Mycroft. Then he tore his hand away from his brother's gentle hold and turned his head to face the wall.
Mycroft was devastated, but as with most of his deep emotions, he kept this hidden. "You'll be fine," Mycroft repeated. But we won't...
...
Sherlock felt ill. Not the type of ill from refusing meals or withdrawal. That he was used to. He shuddered as he recognised the feeling. It was a hole that had been carved out of his gut, aching and raw.
He will be lucky if he can even manage to sit straight without assistance. But walking? I'm afraid not.
The whispers carried far on the wide hallways. The medical staff thought they were being kinder, not breaking the news to him. Kindness never did a bit of good for anyone. Certainly Mycroft's very tempered understanding of kindness could never make up for his betrayal. The past was the past. But Mycroft would never change.
In the meantime, Sherlock refrained from blocking his brother's number, as the man at least had the decency to update him on John.
John...
A soft, uncertain knock and a similar type of voice interrupted Sherlock's thoughts. "Yes, come in Molly," he said, his voice grainy from disuse.
The small, mousy girl came in, glancing at Sherlock and then back at the floor. She crossed the room and sat in the chair that Mycroft had abandoned the day before.
"I..." she began, uncertain. Sherlock watched her closely. "I just thought I did everything the way you said...I can't believe--" She finally looked him in the eye. "Was it my fault?"
Sherlock's expression softened. He could at least ease Molly's guilt. "No. It was mine. I miscalculated. A tiny tenth of a second. My error, not yours."
Molly bit her lip, her eyes watering as she seemed to be taking in the full extent of the damage, looking into his face and reading him like she had proven she could. Sherlock's eyes indicated the box of tissues on the bedside table.
"Oh, of course," Molly said, understanding his gesture and taking a few of the tissues. She dabbed at her eyes and then slowly began to tear apart the paper during their conversation, leaving pieces on her lap.
Sherlock participated in conversing with her, but was far more interested in watching the scraps of tissue, the patterns that it was torn by, and the subtle way that Molly scratched her index finger using the thumb of the same hand, whenever she uttered the word "Sorry."
Sherlock interrupted Molly's nattering. "Molly. When I told you...when you asked what I needed, do you remember what my answer was?"
Molly looked down at her knees and then back up to Sherlock, before her eyes darted away. "Urm...y-you said I was."
Sherlock nodded. "You are what I need."
"I don't understand...I mean, I got you to safety. I'm sorry I had to involve your brother, but..." Molly stopped talking because Sherlock had taken her hand into his. "Sherlock?" she finally said.
"Without you, I wouldn't be here," Sherlock said, looking right into her eyes. "And not just because of the jump. Before I met John, you were the only person who cared about me. For years, you were the only person I talked to who didn't tell me to piss off. And I treated you the same way I treated everyone else. I shouldn't have. Because you're the reason I survived all those years."
Molly's mouth was open, caught speechless. When Sherlock wanted to, he could be a good, good man. She simply nodded, unsure what to say or do.
"You may kiss me, Molly Hooper," said Sherlock. "I want you to."
Molly felt a thousand emotions and sensations running around inside of her. Her body moved of its own accord so that she was leaning over Sherlock. They locked eyes for a moment before their lips touched. The kiss was chaste and very much a fraternal type of kiss before Sherlock's lips parted and the gesture deepened. They stayed that way, exploring one another's lips and mouths, Sherlock's hand running through Molly's hair and her hands holding onto his shoulders for support.
When the kiss ended, Molly sat back in her chair, flushed with the thrill of finally getting to kiss Sherlock Holmes. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Molly broke the silence. "Sherlock, you'll get through this too. I will...you asked me to help you with the jump, and this is still a part of the promise I made. I'm going to help you get better."
Sherlock swallowed and nodded. "Thank you. For all of it. Thank you for my life."
"Thank you for letting me be a part of it," said Molly. She kissed him on the forehead and settled down to pour him a glass of water, beginning the first steps of a very long recovery.
Author: marill_chan
Prompt: #7 Painful for
25deductions and #85 She for
sherlock100
Summary: Sherlock will never walk again. Molly/Sherlock
Warnings: None
Rating: PG15
Spoilers: Series 2
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock.
My table: 25 Deductions Table
My other table: Sherlock 100 Table
A man sat in a small, darkened room, bent over his brother's bedside. His neck and back had begun to trouble him from sitting in this position day after day. He only left at night for six hours to sleep and shower. All his meals were delivered to him in the private hospital room. When his brother was still and silent, he would check the email on his phone, or type up a few documents on his laptop. Otherwise, Mycroft was completely devoted to watching over Sherlock.
...
Two weeks earlier...
Molly's name came up on Mycroft's phone. He wrinkled his forehead and answered.
"Mr. Holmes? Mycroft?" said Molly's voice, even more nervous than usual. "It's Sherlock. We had this idea...a plan. It went all wrong and he's hurt. But...I promised that whatever happened, I would keep him hidden. Please, you have to help."
Mycroft felt ever closer to the impending heart attack that was going to take him someday.
"Is Sherlock with you now?" he asked.
"Wh--yes. Yes, he's..."
"I have your location. Stand by." Mycroft ended the phone call and put his face into his hands, indulging in a brief moment of concern and pain. Moments later, he started to make phone calls to arrange to hide and heal his brother.
...
It had been a spinal injury, Mycroft reflected, as he watched the lines on Sherlock's face deepen with expression. He would probably never walk again, according to the best doctors on Mycroft's staff. Mycroft was willing to believe them, a fact he would hide from Sherlock at all cost.
Sherlock's eyes fluttered. Mycroft sat on the edge of his chair, hands hovering over Sherlock's. Would Sherlock remember everything? There hadn't been any brain damage as far as the tests could show. But memory loss was a possibility, at least in the short term. He'd been sleeping for two weeks and would be disoriented.
"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered. "It's fine. Take your time."
Sherlock shook his head, eyes blinking and squinting. He made garbled sounds deep in his throat, reminiscent of territorial growls.
Mycroft gracefully took his hand. "There. I'm here. You'll be fine."
Sherlock's eyes tracked his brother. Mycroft felt his insides twist at the confused and frightened look in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a couple of seconds before opening them again to look at Mycroft. Then he tore his hand away from his brother's gentle hold and turned his head to face the wall.
Mycroft was devastated, but as with most of his deep emotions, he kept this hidden. "You'll be fine," Mycroft repeated. But we won't...
...
Sherlock felt ill. Not the type of ill from refusing meals or withdrawal. That he was used to. He shuddered as he recognised the feeling. It was a hole that had been carved out of his gut, aching and raw.
He will be lucky if he can even manage to sit straight without assistance. But walking? I'm afraid not.
The whispers carried far on the wide hallways. The medical staff thought they were being kinder, not breaking the news to him. Kindness never did a bit of good for anyone. Certainly Mycroft's very tempered understanding of kindness could never make up for his betrayal. The past was the past. But Mycroft would never change.
In the meantime, Sherlock refrained from blocking his brother's number, as the man at least had the decency to update him on John.
John...
A soft, uncertain knock and a similar type of voice interrupted Sherlock's thoughts. "Yes, come in Molly," he said, his voice grainy from disuse.
The small, mousy girl came in, glancing at Sherlock and then back at the floor. She crossed the room and sat in the chair that Mycroft had abandoned the day before.
"I..." she began, uncertain. Sherlock watched her closely. "I just thought I did everything the way you said...I can't believe--" She finally looked him in the eye. "Was it my fault?"
Sherlock's expression softened. He could at least ease Molly's guilt. "No. It was mine. I miscalculated. A tiny tenth of a second. My error, not yours."
Molly bit her lip, her eyes watering as she seemed to be taking in the full extent of the damage, looking into his face and reading him like she had proven she could. Sherlock's eyes indicated the box of tissues on the bedside table.
"Oh, of course," Molly said, understanding his gesture and taking a few of the tissues. She dabbed at her eyes and then slowly began to tear apart the paper during their conversation, leaving pieces on her lap.
Sherlock participated in conversing with her, but was far more interested in watching the scraps of tissue, the patterns that it was torn by, and the subtle way that Molly scratched her index finger using the thumb of the same hand, whenever she uttered the word "Sorry."
Sherlock interrupted Molly's nattering. "Molly. When I told you...when you asked what I needed, do you remember what my answer was?"
Molly looked down at her knees and then back up to Sherlock, before her eyes darted away. "Urm...y-you said I was."
Sherlock nodded. "You are what I need."
"I don't understand...I mean, I got you to safety. I'm sorry I had to involve your brother, but..." Molly stopped talking because Sherlock had taken her hand into his. "Sherlock?" she finally said.
"Without you, I wouldn't be here," Sherlock said, looking right into her eyes. "And not just because of the jump. Before I met John, you were the only person who cared about me. For years, you were the only person I talked to who didn't tell me to piss off. And I treated you the same way I treated everyone else. I shouldn't have. Because you're the reason I survived all those years."
Molly's mouth was open, caught speechless. When Sherlock wanted to, he could be a good, good man. She simply nodded, unsure what to say or do.
"You may kiss me, Molly Hooper," said Sherlock. "I want you to."
Molly felt a thousand emotions and sensations running around inside of her. Her body moved of its own accord so that she was leaning over Sherlock. They locked eyes for a moment before their lips touched. The kiss was chaste and very much a fraternal type of kiss before Sherlock's lips parted and the gesture deepened. They stayed that way, exploring one another's lips and mouths, Sherlock's hand running through Molly's hair and her hands holding onto his shoulders for support.
When the kiss ended, Molly sat back in her chair, flushed with the thrill of finally getting to kiss Sherlock Holmes. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Molly broke the silence. "Sherlock, you'll get through this too. I will...you asked me to help you with the jump, and this is still a part of the promise I made. I'm going to help you get better."
Sherlock swallowed and nodded. "Thank you. For all of it. Thank you for my life."
"Thank you for letting me be a part of it," said Molly. She kissed him on the forehead and settled down to pour him a glass of water, beginning the first steps of a very long recovery.