It was the shadow edge of night, a time when most people slept peacefully unaware of the suffocating darkness surrounding them. But for those who remained awake, it was when their greatest fears preyed on their minds.

Between survival and death in the ICU was a gray area filled with musical beeps and hums and whirring noises. The floor echoed with the sounds of machines keeping people alive. Occasionally a code was called over the intercom, sending nurses and doctors rushing to the patient in distress. When that happened, Sherlock would stare in abject fear at Molly's bed from where he slumped against the wall. But her heart continued to beat and she continued to breathe.

Drained physically and emotionally, he felt disgusted with the fierce battle that raged inside him. He meant everything he had said about going to rehab. But it was taking all his inner resolve not to storm out of the hospital and find the nearest dealer. The tiny gossamer threads he clung to were tenuous at best.

The nurse he had encountered earlier interrupted his thoughts. She brought in a chair, took him by the arm, and sat him down as if he were a petulant three year old. Sherlock bristled. He didn't want or deserve to be mothered. That, however, wasn't her intention.

"I've been in this business twenty years, and I know all the signs." Her shrewd little eyes appraised him. "If you think you're going to go get a fix while this lass is in that bed, you've got another thing coming. You've been given special privileges to be on the ward, so your arse isn't going to get up unless it's to go to the loo, and even then I'm going to make sure that's where you go."

His mouth opened, a retort ready on his lips, but she had already left. A few minutes later she returned with peanut butter crackers and a cup of tea.

"Eat these. Drink this," she said as sternly.

He sneered contemptuously and obeyed. The tea was heavy with sugar.

"And you can stop glaring at me," she said, reading something in Molly's chart. "I believe she is going to be just fine."

Sherlock paused mid-chew and watched the monitors. He could read them as well as she could, and he saw nothing new. "What makes you think so?"

"She was very sick indeed when she went into surgery, but now her vital signs are better than what I would have expected." She turned to leave, her expression softening. "It's normal to feel scared when morning seems far away, but I feel she's turned a corner."

"The darkest before the dawn and all that?" He sounded sarcastic, but part of him secretly longed for her reassurance

"Yes," she said simply.

He waited until she left before inching the chair closer to Molly. He purposefully focused on her face and not the wound in her abdomen.

"It's Christmas morning, and it's snowing! Isn't it perfect?"

Happiness enveloped her as she threw her arms up to the sky. A stray shaft of sunlight glinted off the long braid that ran down her back as she lifted her face to the white canopy. Lacey flakes dusted her lashes as she extended mittened hands to him.

"Join me."

"I regret not joining you." His voice was scratchy and sounded ridiculously plaintive, but he pressed on. "I didn't see the point of doing something so illogical. But it would've made you happy. I didn't put your happiness before my stubbornness, and for that I am sorry."

He intertwined his fingers through hers and studied how perfectly her hand fit with his. It was hard to tell where his flesh stopped and hers started.

"I have a lot to make up to you. I have a lot to thank you for, too. You wanted to save me. I am trying to be worthy of that sacrifice, but I am struggling right now."

"Sherlock?" John whispered, having entered without the detective noticing.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat and fought to keep his humanness in check. "Yes?"

"Why don't you come get something to eat?"

Sherlock wouldn't meet his friend's eyes. "Nurse Ratchett gave me crackers. And she has informed me I am to remain sitting."

"What? Never mind." John looked at the monitors just like the nurse had. Sherlock watched his best friend's face, hoping to read the truth in his response. Having the person he trusted most in the world tell him about Molly's condition meant more than what the nurse had said.

"Molly's stable. In fact, she's doing better," he said. "It's OK. Mary and Greg are waiting."

"I don't want to leave her."

"That's what I thought you'd say, so we aren't going far. We've taken over a small conference room and brought in tea and biscuits and sandwiches."

Reluctantly, Sherlock leaned forward. "I will be right back," he told Molly.

The machines beeped in reply.

The space was hardly a conference room. It was more like a large closet with a table and chairs wedged in it. Greg and Mary had spread out a hodgepodge of food they had scavenged from vending machines to make a poor man's picnic.

Sherlock stiffened as Mary pulled him into a tight embrace. "How are you doing? How is Molly?"

Mary was an intelligent woman, certainly able to tell when a grown man had been crying, but she said nothing, instead handing him a cup of tea that had already grown cold.

"The nurse said she felt Molly had turned a corner," he forced out.

Lestrade laughed in relief. "Well, that's great news!"

"It is, you know." John smiled at him. "Things are looking up."

Feeling the knots in his neck relax slightly, Sherlock sat.

Lestrade tore open a package of crisps. "I've been on the phone with my superiors and Mycroft, and all charges against you have been dropped."

Mycroft.

Sherlock had forced his brother's role in the day's events out of his mind, but now he felt as if hot coals had dropped into his gut. "Don't say his name. I never want to have anything to do with him again as long as he lives."

"You don't mean that," Mary chided him.

"I do," he said vehemently, sending a spray of liquid across the wall as he threw the disposable cup in the trash.

"He's your brother," she began.

"Not anymore," he seethed.

"Don't be a child," John sighed.

They sat silently, no one eating. Every once in a while, one of them would look his direction as if they expected him to spontaneously combust.

"Stop doing that," he snapped.

"Doing what?" John asked

"You're wondering if I am going to go use," he accused them.

Tired, Lestrade said sharply, "Do you blame us?"

"No." Sherlock pushed away from the table and stood. "This has been lovely."

He strode back to Molly and slumped into his chair.

The dawn arrived as it always did, slowly and miraculously turning on the lights in the sky. Sherlock didn't see the sunrise, but he calculated the passage of time and saw the change of staff.

"Dr. Jacobson will be here in a few minutes to disconnect the ventilator." A new nurse appeared with an intern in tow.

Sherlock's head swiveled to John, who had joined him in his vigil.

"Molly is doing well enough to be woken up. Normally the tube is removed before she completely wakes up," the doctor explained.

"I knew that," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"It's OK to forget things when you're under stress." John inclined his head toward the hall. "We need to leave while they do this."

Reluctantly Sherlock stood and whispered in Molly's ear, "I love you."

The pair waited in the conference room. Mary and Greg were nowhere to be seen.

"She's through the worst of it, I believe." John reached for some unopened biscuits on the table

Sherlock noticed how his friend rubbed his bandaged arm without thinking. "I haven't thanked you yet for saving her. Thank you."

"She's a remarkable woman to have done what she did yesterday."

Molly was remarkable and brave. Sherlock knew he would be the worst type of fool to go back to drugs, even for a minute's reprieve from his feelings. Not when he had Molly Hooper in his corner.

"You know . . . I love her," Sherlock admitted quietly.

John said nothing for a minute, then he chortled. "Of course I know. Everyone knows. I do know it took a lot for you to tell me that."

Sherlock's Mediterranean blue eyes turned flinty. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. It's just that when I met you, you were more robot than human. I just wish . . ."

"What?"

John rubbed his arm again. "That declaring your feelings was something you felt comfortable doing in front of others. Especially when we all know the truth anyway."

The nurse peeked into the room. "The doctor is done now. You can come back. She's coming around, but she's going to be out of it for a while."

Seeing Molly breathing on her own was an emotional release for Sherlock. For the first time since he arrived at the hospital, he believed she was going to be all right. Pulling the chair away from the bed, he climbed on top of it.

"Everyone, come in here! Come on—you lot at the nurses' station, come in here!"

"Be quiet!" John exclaimed. "Get down from there!"

"Come in, everyone!" Sherlock continued as a crowd quickly gathered. At the sound of the commotion, Mary and Greg had come running, too.

"Sir, you have to get down!" someone exclaimed.

"Oh my God, is he high?" Lestrade asked.

"No, I'm not high, Gavin. I will never use drugs again," Sherlock declared. "I want you all to know that I love this woman. I love Molly Hooper!"

"Really?" John looked at him incredulously. "Do you think you are Tom Cruise? You couldn't do this without dramatics?"

At the sound of Sherlock's voice, Molly's eyes had snapped open. When he looked down at her, he was rewarded with a smile.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Anthea stayed in her boss's office at his request. Rick Dodge was seated in the same chair he sat in last time, but now she had file on him. A thick file. Her nose twitched as she suppressed a grin.

Perhaps Mycroft is worried he'd kill the bloke outright if I weren't present. Not that it would matter.

Her mobile had blown up since yesterday with updates and messages regarding Dodge, Rusk, Sherlock, and Dr. Hooper. Mycroft's mood grew darker with each alert. Anthea knew Sherlock would focus blame on his older brother. Mycroft knew this, too. Standing behind his desk, he looked like a thundercloud.

"Mr. Dodge, I agreed to help you because Lord Ashton asked me. I knew Sherlock would find Ruby Danley. I didn't see the harm in notifying you of when he did, provided it would lead to taking a major drug dealer off the streets. That was an error on my part that I deeply regret. You are a bungling, self-involved fool."

Dodge turned bright red. "Oi, you have no right—"

"Your failure to properly secure your firearm resulted in the murder of Ruby Danley. But your manipulating Dr. Hooper, a civilian, into participating in a police sting is beyond the pale."

"We arrested him, didn't we? Rusk. And we got Fitzsimmons, too," Dodge said defensively.

"All thanks to the quick thinking of Dr. Hooper, not you!" Mycroft pounded his desk.

"You did not capture the murderer known as Sid Vicious and you did not recover the money."

Anthea gasped. This blundering oaf had done the impossible: He had ruffled her unflappable boss, not because of the case but because of the damage done to his relationship with Sherlock.

Quickly regaining his composure, Mycroft started toward the door. "I'm leaving you in the capable hands of my PA. She knows what to do."

Anthea tried to catch his eye as he walked out, but Mycroft Holmes stared straight ahead. She had never seen him so angry. Only she knew how dangerous he truly was in this state.

"Agent Dodge, you are to come with me," she said.

"Where?" The agent was sweating profusely.

She smiled sweetly. "You are now entering a bureaucratic and legal black hole from which you won't reappear."

~s~s~s~s~s~

"As soon as you're well enough, I'm going to leave you."

Molly didn't say anything but instead raised a tolerant eyebrow. John didn't need to tell Sherlock that what he had said was "a bit not good." He could feel his pulse hammering at his temples as he rephrased.

"The doctor has said—and John agrees—that you're doing remarkably. You're on your way to a full recovery. So, the sooner I go to rehab, the sooner I can return to you."

Molly didn't say anything. She didn't have to. She simply outstretched her arms to him. That was what Sherlock had nearly lost.

"I love you," he murmured and gently held her. There was a dizzying rush of joy—and something much deeper. Maybe feelings weren't so bad after all.

"Can we have a visit now?" Mary and John entered with a cheery bouquet of daisies; Lestrade followed with Molly's favorite chocolates.

"They're lovely!" Molly exclaimed. Her cheeks had color in them now and she was able to walk up and down the hall with Sherlock's help for longer periods of time.

As John and Mary talked with her, Lestrade pulled Sherlock aside. "When are you going to rehab?"

"When she is discharged."

"She'll be staying at John and Mary's. They'll take good care of her."

"I know."

"You've done it before—kicked drugs and started over. You can do it again." Lestrade paused. "Take a lesson from Lot's wife, yeah? Don't look back."

~s~s~s~s~s~

Six months later

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Sherlock and Molly lay languidly in his bed. Two months earlier he had returned from rehab clean and sober. It had been two months of painful, tentative rebuilding and joyful reuniting with John, Mary, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and most importantly, Molly.

She had stood up for herself and gave voice to her hurt and pain. She laid before him the damage he had done and waited as he took responsibility for it. He apologized, and she told him her boundaries. And then she forgave him and took him to bed. The woman amazed him.

Molly pulled the bedspread up to her chin. Sherlock had never understood modesty in anyone but especially in Molly. Why would she feel it was necessary to cover up after he had seen every inch of her?

"Are you cold?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Then why?" He tried to tease the bedspread downward, but she wasn't having any of it.

"My scar. It isn't the way I had hoped it would be."

Alarmed, he yanked the blankets down with such force that Molly stood no chance in remaining covered. Sherlock put his face within inches of the purplish-red scar. It was puckered, but there was no sign of infection.

Molly squirmed under his intense stare. "I had hoped it would be smooth, but it won't be."

"It's ridged. That's how some scars are." He looked at her quizzically.

"It's embarrassing." She blushed like she used to when they had first met.

"Why would you feel self-conscious about a perfectly normal healing process?" He returned to the head of the bed so he could be eye to eye with her.

"The skin will never lay right. I may not regain feeling around it. If I ever have children, my whole stomach will become lumpy and saggy." She fidgeted with the blanket. "It's embarrassing."

Sherlock blinked. Molly Hooper was the most baffling woman he had ever met.

"Well, don't feel that way," he said simply.

He watched her face and knew that, once again, he had hit the wrong tone. He tried a different approach.

"Do you think I care about how it looks?"

"A little," she finally answered.

He was taken aback. "You've seen my scars."

"That's different," she objected.

"How?"

"It just is." Molly set her jaw.

Sherlock looked into her eyes. "Your scar is a beauty mark. It will always remind me that you were willing to lay down your life for me. And that will always be beautiful."

He was relieved when she smiled.

"I love you. I always will."

"I love you. And I will never say those words to another woman." He kissed her deeply, and her body rose to his.

Later, she rolled onto her side so that he could hold her from behind. "Why Mr. Holmes. I didn't know you were such a romantic."

He brushed his lips over her shoulder. "Don't tell anyone."

"It's our secret."

"When I was in rehab, I thought of you all the time, which was easy because all around were reminders of you. I would lay awake and try to recall what your body felt like beside me." He pulled her closer. "Like this."

"You once told me that the body is merely transport and that parts are parts."

"Well, some parts are more appealing than others." He ran his hands over her, sending her into a fit of giggles.

Rolling over to face him, Molly rested her hands on his chest. "Speaking of parts, I noticed you have put on nearly all the weight you lost."

"Very observant of you, Dr. Hooper." He kissed the tip of her nose. "I disciplined my mind to accept the fact that I had to eat regularly in rehab."

"And group therapy? You're really going to continue it?"

"It helps me stay clean." Sherlock's thoughts were obviously elsewhere.

Molly propped up against the headboard, no longer worried about the covers staying up. "What is it?"

"There's something not right about this rehab," he said. "There's something going on there. I haven't gathered enough data yet to determine what it is."

"Do you mean you feel something is wrong?" Molly teased.

Sherlock's chuckle was deep and throaty. "I suppose John and you are having an effect on my methods."

"You really think there is something that needs investigating?" Molly grew serious.

"I do. In fact, I plan on it being my next case."

Molly looked worried. "And not Sid Vicious?"

Knowing the man who had shot her was still free made her uneasy. Sherlock had plans in the works to deal with the hired killer, but there was no need to burden her with them.

"I promise to keep you safe," he said. "It's important that you believe me. Do you?"

Wrapping a sheet around her, Molly slid out of bed. She extended her hands to him.

"Join me," she said.

Sherlock smiled.

"I would love nothing more."

~s~s~s~s~s~

Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, and reviewed this story. You really are the best fandom out there. Sherlock and Molly will return with another mystery soon.