God knows I should be working on something else. I have many stories that need my desperate attention. But I can't get this one out of my head and I can't focus on my other stories until it's out.

I have been watching Sherlock a lot lately and even though Sherlock doesn't love Molly the way she would perhaps like, its obvious that he does care deeply about her in his own way.

Molly didn't know why she was going there. All she knew was that she needed to get away, get somewhere safe, and there was no safer place than 221 B. Baker Street. He wouldn't be able to get her there, and Sherlock had all but demanded that she come to him for help.

She had been watching Sherlock perform his latest experiment with a corpse when he spoke up. Sherlock ceased his examination of the thousands of maggots on the corpse and looked at her with those eyes, those eyes that saw everything.

"Molly, you should seek medical attention for your ribs." Sherlock's deep baritone was as nonchalant as if he were discussing the weather. At least, if Sherlock had ever discussed the weather with her, she imagined that's how he would sound. Bored.

"What? What are you talking about?" Molly tried to smile. "My ribs are fine."

"Every time you take a step with your right foot, you wince slightly. When you rolled out the corpse I requested, you were favoring your side. When you reached up to grab your clipboard off the shelf you reached with your left hand."

"So?" Molly blushed and looked away.

"You're right-handed. Why would you reach with your left hand, which is slightly shorter and weaker, unless you were injured on your right side? I'm guessing two, maybe three ribs." Sherlock's gaze dared her to deny it. Finally Molly sighed.

"It was an accident. I was just clumsy." Molly giggled nervously. Why did Sherlock always turn her into a flustered mess?

"I see." Sherlock paused for effect. "The black eye last week, the ever present bruises on your wrists and forearms, as well as the handprint on your collarbone. These are also the result of you being, as you say...clumsy, are they?" Sherlock watched his words take effect on Molly, the petite woman trying to cover the marks as he listed them off.

"Sherlock-"

"Molly, what you do in your personal life is none of my concern until it begins to affect your work." Molly's face fell. Of course. Everything was about work. When Molly looked up again, Sherlock was towering over her but looking over the op of her head. "If anything were to happen to you, who would supply me with the means to continue my experiments?"

Molly felt the heat radiating off of her from being so close to the man. She knew that Sherlock and her could never work, and she had accepted that. But that didn't change the fact that he was remarkably good looking and standing less than a foot away from her.

"I...It's not his fault." Molly stammered. Sherlock fixed his cool gaze on her and she quieted down.

"Molly Hooper. Too forgiving for your own good." Sherlock turned and resumed his study of the maggots. Molly let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Sherlock heard her breathing hitch as her bruised ribs stabbed her with pain. "If you do not wish to receive proper medical attention due to embarrassment, at least come to the flat and let John look you over."

Molly was jerked out her flashback when she tripped and fell, jarring her already painful ribs. She could only catch herself with one hand though as her left shoulder was dislocated. She picked herself back up with a cry and kept moving, ignoring the stares of passerby. She needed to keep going before she was too tired to continue. He hadn't let her take any money for a cab and her cellphone was lying in six pieces on the floor where he had stepped on it. It was cold outside, and her coat was too thin. She suddenly wished she had Sherlock's ever-present scarf. It looked warm. Finally, the door to 221 B. Baker Street was visible and she gratefully climbed the stairs. Before she could knock, the door opened and Sherlock caught Molly as she fell into the flat.

"Molly Hooper, what has he done to you?" Sherlock muttered as he swung her into his arms and walked upstairs with her. "John!"

"Bloody Hell. What is it now?" John stood irately from his chair. Sherlock had been particularly annoying that day.

"I believe Molly here could use your expertise." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly as he laid the young woman down on the sofa. She was conscious enough to be incredibly embarrassed that she had literally fallen into his arms. But she allowed herself to enjoy the feel of his muscular arms while she could.

"Oh my God. Molly!" John hurried to her side. "What happened?"

Molly's left eye was already bruising, and a gash on her hairline was still bleeding sluggishly. Sherlock helped Molly sit up and removed her jacket slowly, revealing a fresh bruise on top of the old bruise on her collar bone. Dark bruises littered her neck, fingers, as Sherlock knew from a rather interesting experiment he had once tried on a corpse. John was rushing about, getting his supplies and talking through what he was doing so he didn't scare Molly. Sherlock stood by the window, gazing outside as people bustled along in their silly little lives. The occasional grunt of pain from Molly kept him from completely tuning out the world.

"What happened?" Sherlock's voice made Molly jump.

"My boyfriend." Molly answered, knowing that was all Sherlock needed to hear to deduce the rest. John, too.

"When did the verbal abuse start?"

"About two months ago." Molly answered again, feeling her throat constrict.

"And the physical started about two weeks ago, am I correct?" Sherlock knew he was before Molly nodded. John placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she flinched.

"What brought this on?" John asked awkwardly. Molly sniffed loudly. Sherlock continued to stare at her from his place at the window.

"I tried...I tried to break up with him. But he wouldn't...He just kept saying that he made that decision, not me, because I'm just a stupid girl that doesn't know how good she has it." Molly wiped her eyes. "He insisted I give him my jewelry, my cash, all of my valuables. So he could keep them 'safe'. Now now he won't give them back."

John comforted Molly while she tried to get herself under control again. They looked up when they heard the door slam. Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs and made herself busy fussing about Molly.

Two hours later, Sherlock returned and placed a box in front of Molly where she sat watching TV. He didn't say a word, and neither did Molly as he sat down on the couch. John's questions were ignored. Molly opened the box to find her jewelry, a few photos of her family, and some money.

"Sherlock...this is...these are..." Molly looked over to where Sherlock was, searching his dark eyes. "Thank you."

"I think you'll find that he put some extra money in there. As an apology for his behavior." Sherlock smiled that funny, strange little smile of his. The one that said he knew something you didn't, something you were better off not knowing. "He was quite helpful once he saw things from my point of view."

"What did you do to your hand?" John stood and crossed to Sherlock, who allowed his hand to be examined. "Your knuckles are busted."

"Like I said. My point of view." Sherlock pulled his hand back.

Hope you liked that little one-shot. Please review if you would like more Sherlock fics.