I Will Try To Fix You

Sherlock Holmes in a state of boredom, even a minor one, is always a dangerous thing. He was pacing restlessly around the sitting room of 221B Baker Street one evening in late January, wishing and almost going so far as praying to whatever deity may exist for something to present itself that would occupy his mind.

Thankfully, his prayer was answered before he could start shooting the wall – but in the worst way.

Sherlock practically pounced on his mobile phone when it began to ring, barely glimpsing the caller ID of DI Lestrade. Lestrade calling means a case, at last! If it were an urgent one, he would have come here directly, but I will take what I can get!

"Ah, Lestrade," he greeted in a cool tone that gave nothing of his desperate and bored state away. "Got a case for me?"

"Sherlock, thank God you picked up, um…no, it's…oh jeez, how can I…"

The consulting detective immediately became confused (and concerned, but wouldn't admit it) by the tone and hesitation of Lestrade's voice. There was a grave quality that told Sherlock that what he would about to learn was not good news. "Lestrade? What is going on?"

He heard the detective inspector heave a great sigh. "It's Molly, Sherlock…she was in an accident."

Sherlock completely froze, both his breathing and his heart stopping momentarily. Immediately, his brilliant and organized mind conjured up images of Molly hurt, injuries ranging to the serious by the tone of Lestrade's voice, all in high-definition. He only remained frozen like this for a millisecond at most before tearing off his dressing gown impatiently and replacing it with his Belstaff and scarf. This proved quite a frustrating task, since he still held his phone at his ear so he would miss nothing Lestrade said. "Where is she? Is she at St. Bart's already or was another hospital closer?"

"No, no, Sherlock, she…she doesn't need to go to hospital."

Sherlock froze again. Even more terrible images now filled his head: Molly not breathing, Molly pale as snow and cold as ice, her warm brown eyes dead and lifeless, her body limp and weak in his arms…no no no no no No No No No No NO NO NO NO NO –

"Sherlock? You still there?"

The consulting detective didn't know about or feel the tear that had escaped his usually dry eyes and traveled over the curve of his prominent right cheekbone. He unfroze by taking a huge, shaking breath, and responding in a low and raspy voice. "Yes."

"Molly's physically fine, Sherlock. She only got a few cuts and bruises."

The wave of relief that swept over Sherlock was so large and sweet that he fell to his knees, right on the threshold of 221B. He didn't notice that, or the other tear that fell down his opposite cheek.

Lestrade kept talking, and Sherlock listened, his mobile pressed as hard as he could to his ear.

"She was really lucky, Sherlock, to not have been more injured. And good thing, too, because she's really shaken up by what happened. Apparently, the cab that she took after her shift ended turned out to be a rogue one. The cabbie, clearly unstable and unhinged for one reason or another, locked her in and proceeded to plow through twenty city blocks way over the speed limit and ignoring all traffic regulations. Molly tried to talk him down, but he wouldn't be swayed, so she finally managed to unlock her door and get out. Luckily, she rolled once she hit the ground and some bystanders helped her. But the driver then drove right into a truck crossing the next intersection. Cab blew up, cabbie instantly dead, Molly and the folks with her saw the whole thing."

Each word of this story made the temperature of Sherlock's blood rise until it was near boiling. Damn cabbies! I am not going to stand for this, especially if my pathologist is put through this!

"Sherlock, you still there?"

"Yes, Lestrade," Sherlock replied, glad to be pulled out of his red anger. What he needed to focus on now was Molly. "Where is she now?"

"She's safe in the back of my car," replied Lestrade. "She's barely made a peep since this happened, and I don't feel comfortable taking her home since she won't have anyone with her."

"You're absolutely right. Bring her here." The words came out before Sherlock could really think, but he didn't regret saying them. He was being honest: after what Molly had gone through, the thought of her being alone made him feel slightly sick. More than anything, Sherlock needed to see her, to have her with him, so he could reassure himself and make sure that she was all right, that she was not…gone.

Silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and then Sherlock heard a relieved sigh. "You will? Thank goodness, it's what I was going to ask, and I wasn't sure if you would."

"Why not?" Sherlock immediately exclaimed, feeling quite offended by Lestrade's implication.

"Well, I know you two haven't exactly been on the best of terms the past few months. Plus – no offense, mate, but it's the truth – it's kind of hard to imagine you taking care of anybody since you can barely take care of yourself."

"I resent that!" Sherlock snapped, thoroughly annoyed. "I'm a grown man!"

"Mm-hm," was the very skeptical reply. Sherlock would have protested (whined) again if Lestrade's next words kept him quiet. "Either way, Sherlock, I know she'll be safe with you. And whatever shit you two are going through, I know she'll feel safe with you, and right now she needs that most of all."

He's right, thought Sherlock. That is what is most important now, and with me is the safest place she could ever be. Deciding not to look too deeply at this dangerously sentimental fact, Sherlock spoke in his usual tone again. "I will await your arrival."

"See you in twenty," said Lestrade before hanging up.

Sherlock spent the next twenty minutes pacing, checking out the window, and texting on his mobile at rapid speed. His homeless network were being told (ordered) to check out every cabbie in the city, and send him any information available on the suspicious ones. True, Mycroft's people had better resources and means, but Sherlock had three reasons for his choice of help: his network reported to him not his brother, those deemed invisible by society could see each other much better than ordinary people, and they knew better the signs to look for than Mycroft's shallow minions. He would take care of the cabbies of London once he was sure Molly was alright. A cabbie trying to kill him was one thing he could let slide, but one who tried to kill his Molly, well….

Wait a minute…My Molly?

The sight of Lestrade's car pulling up outside his building brought Sherlock back to reality and away from another dangerous train of thought. Without hesitation, Sherlock rushed out of his flat, down the stairs, and out the front door just as Lestrade got out of the car. Sherlock reached the backseat door before he did, and practically ripped it opened.

The sight of Molly made his heart clench and crack. She looked utterly exhausted and even more defeated. Her posture was slumped, her hands were clasped tightly together, her cheeks were no longer rosy and her brown eyes had none of their usual sparkle. "Molly," he called softly, reaching inside and undoing her seat belt. Then, very gently, he helped her out of the car.

Now standing on the sidewalk, Sherlock could feel how Molly was almost limp in her numbness and shock from the trauma. Acting on pure instinct straight from the heart, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, pressing her securely to his chest. His nose sank into her hair, and her hands instinctively reached up and clutched the lapels of his Belstaff, her face pressed into his scarf. Both were reassuring each other that the danger was over and she was safe.

When Lestrade cleared his throat, Sherlock remembered he was still there and looked at him. The inspector was smiling softly. "I'll call later to see how she's doing," he said. "Take care of her, Sherlock."

Sherlock merely nodded before resting his cheek on top of her head. He listened to the car roar back to life and drive away before pulling back. But he couldn't pull back too far, for Molly's hold on his coat tightened. Her eyes locked with his, and he could see how wide and frightened they were.

Does she think I would really leave her now? he thought. Looking at her more closely now, he could see a small cut above her right eye that had been bandaged, proof of what she had been through. He resisted the impulse to brush his lips over it. Gently, his arm wrapped around her shoulders reassuringly. "Let's go inside, Molly."

She leaned against him as they walked inside and up to 221B, and he didn't mind in the slightest. But he was also very nervous, even scared. Lestrade's words about not knowing if he could take care of Molly rang over and over in his mind. What if he made things worse? Oh, if only John were not spending the weekend in the country with his very pregnant wife! He would know what to do; he always knew what to do when clients who were emotional or vulnerable came in. What if he only made things worse now? What if he only made Molly feel even more terrible than she already felt?

A small voice that sounded remarkably like John (which was most likely his conscience, often very annoying but certainly not now) sounded in his head:

Don't think, just feel, and you'll know what to do.

Sherlock gulped. Certainly not his territory, but…looking down at the crown of Molly's small brown head, he knew he was certainly going to try.

Once inside, Sherlock locked the door (she'd had enough of the outside world today) and led her to the sofa. He sat her down, but she wouldn't let go of his coat. Looking into her frightened eyes again, Sherlock gently unpried her hands and held them in his own. "I'm just going to go in the kitchen and make you something. Just…stay here, sit…I'll come back."

Finally, color came back to her cheeks, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel relieved. She looked down and let go of his hands, nodding. As she brought up her legs and wrapped her arms around them, the detective realized she was embarrassed by her vulnerability. He could certainly understand that. Remembering the advice of his conscience, Sherlock bent down and gently kissed her brow before retreating into the kitchen, not looking back at her reaction.

Once inside the kitchen, and after stripping off his coat and scarf, he realized that he didn't know what exactly he should make now. Tea? A logical choice. But Mrs. Hudson was out of biscuits, and he only had Earl Grey when he knew Molly preferred green tea. The thought of running down the block to the café to pick some up was out of the question; he would not leave her now. Opening his near empty cabinets, Sherlock searched for something appropriate to give her. Coffee didn't seem like the right thing in this situation…

Then he spotted something in the back of one cabinet that he kept for private emergencies: hot chocolate and marshmallows. He smiled. Perfect. He always had some for those lonely human moments that had become more frequent since he'd returned to London and an empty flat. It's what Mummy always made for him as a child when he felt bad. At times, he was convinced that he wouldn't have survived Redbeard's sickness and death without this wonderful drink.

He made it quickly, knowing it would be delicious, and brought two steaming mugs into the sitting room. Molly, it seemed, had not moved from her balled position on the couch. Sherlock saw that her lip was trembling a bit and she was rocking a bit back and forth, her large eyes distant and full. Again, his heart clenched and cracked, and again, he kissed her brow. This brought her attention back to him, and he bit back a smile at her cheeks flushing again. I know you're still in there, my Molly.

"Here," he said, holding out a mug to her. She took it gingerly, closing her eyes in delight as she took a sip. She opened her eyes again and looked at him.

"Thank you."

Her voice was so small and quiet, but Sherlock was just relieved that she had spoken at all. He sat down beside her on the couch, and both drank in silence for a minute.

Wanting to fill that silence, Sherlock picked up the telly remote from the coffee table and turned it on. He flipped through channels, watching Molly for some kind of recognition or sign of approval. When he landed on a rerun of Call the Midwife, Molly's eyes got a spark back. Sherlock smiled and put down the remote.

As she watched her program, sipping her hot chocolate and slowly relaxing next to him, Sherlock watched Molly while pretending to watch the program. His mind went through the last few months and how far apart they had grown. All his fault, of course: his return to drugs (for a case), his fake engagement (for a case!), getting shot (For a case!), shooting a man (because he lost a case), and not telling her about his fatal exile (she found out about it after those feeble four minutes had passed and the fake Moriarty threat had been eliminated). Yes…he certainly had a lot to make up for, but the fact that she still felt safe with him meant that, if she didn't trust his words or his actions now, she still trusted him with her life. All is not lost, then…

The program ended, and Sherlock saw that, having finished her cup of hot chocolate, Molly could barely keep her eyes open. Her head rested against the back sofa cushion, and her body unconsciously was leaning in his direction. Sherlock got up and, taking her hands, gently helped her to her feet. She offered no resistance.

"Come with me," he said, still following his conscience's advice (so far, it was having spectacular results). Sherlock led her to the bathroom door, said "Wait here," and went into his room. He retrieved a towel and his spare set of pajamas. He returned to her, handed her the towel and pajamas, and said, "Take a bath or a shower, whichever you prefer. Then come back out and go to my room. You can take my bed for the night."

Her mouth opened, no doubt to offer a protest, but Sherlock put a finger to his lips (it was very hard to ignore the tingle he got touching her thin but perfect lips). "With all of the times I stole your room from you, Molly, you deserve to return the favor at least once." He lowered his finger, unconsciously running his thumb over the burning digit.

Molly shut her mouth, nodded, and softly spoke:

"Thank you."

Sherlock shut the bathroom door and left Molly to it. After cleaning up the two empty mugs, he went into his bedroom to wait for her. Of course he would leave when she came in, but he wanted to be sure that she would be properly settled in, and in case she needed anything else.

Why did Lestrade doubt that I could do this? It's not nearly as hard or annoying as I used to think it would be…

After a while, Molly tentatively came to the bedroom and stopped in the doorway, seeing that he was sitting on the bed. Sherlock quickly stood up and turned down the covers. "Do you need anything else?"

Molly shook her head, giving him a tiny but genuine smile. It was the first smile she'd given him in months. It warmed his heart. He stepped away from the bed to make way for her. Before she passed him, she stopped and tentatively took his hand. She gently squeezed it.

"Thank you."

Her voice was still very soft, but completely genuine. Sherlock returned her soft smile, and this time kissed her cheek – a familiar gesture, this time not out of apology or gratitude, but pure adoration. "Sleep well, Molly Hooper."

He then exited the bedroom, softly shutting the door behind him.

Unfortunately, his wish did not get fulfilled.

Several hours later, Sherlock was wide awake on his sofa, answering easy cases posted to his site. Just as he finished his twentieth e-mail, he heard sounds coming from his bedroom. Soft whimpers and sobs that could only come from one source. In a split second, Sherlock was on his feet and heading for the bedroom door. He opened it softly, so as not to startle her, and in the dim light of the room, he looked at Molly in his bed (he couldn't deny that it was a sight he did not object to). She was still asleep, but she was clearly having a nightmare. Her body tossed and turned, her eyes were shut tight, and tears stained her cheeks as her cries grew louder: "Stop, please…slow down…you don't have to…it's not too late…slow down, stop!...Please!..."

His John-conscience spoke loud and clear: What the fuck are you still standing there for, you prat?!

Sherlock hurried to the bed, crawled under the sheets until he was right beside her, and gently pulled her into his arms. "Shh, hush Molly…you're all right, you're safe…It's all over…"

He watched as, in her sleep, she grasped his dressing gown the same way she had grasped his coat earlier, and pressed her sobbing face to his chest. His hold tightened around her, and his lips touched the shell of her ear as he kept murmuring to her the best words of comfort he could come up with, straight from his heart. "I'm here…I'm not going anywhere…I'll keep you safe…I will never let anybody hurt you, Molly…"

Hearing her cries, feeling her sobs gradually calm into steady breathing, feeling her pounding heart slow down to a steady rate, it hit Sherlock fully just how close he had come to losing her. Then he realized that he had already been losing her for months, because his stubborn pride and horrible mistakes had driven her away, and today could have severed the last ties between them forever.

It was more than enough for Sherlock to finally realize what his heart (and his John-conscience) had known for longer than his mind wanted to admit right now. Not wanting to bury it again, not wanting to make the same mistakes again, Sherlock whispered them to the sleeping Molly.

"I want you to stay, Molly, for as long as you need to. So you can feel safe again…but I don't want you to leave…I can't lose you, Molly, and I cannot come this close to that happening because it was my fault…I will take care of you, just as you've always taken care of me…When you wake up, I will be right here, and you will know and never forget…just how much you count to me, my Molly…"

Wanting to be fully rested and ready for the important conversation they would have tomorrow morning, which would hopefully change both of their lives for the better, Sherlock fell asleep, Molly's name on his lips and now permanently etched on his heart and soul.