Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

- NIL BY MOUTH -

Meat Dagger's already there by the time Sherlock finds her.

He's sitting by her bedside, her hand in his.

He's watching Molly sleep. Smiling at her softly as the hear monitor beep-beep-beeps in the background. As the traffic outside whispers and murmurs through the dark of a London night. There's a women's magazine and a bag of maltesers on her beside locker, her phone tucked carefully into her bag, the screen just poking out. Were he looking at it, Meat Dagger might have seen the five calls Sherlock's made to her, each one of which went to voice-mail before Donovan told him where she was and he'd started his mad dash to get here-

Sherlock stares at the scene before him, ponders the meaning of it as he prepares to disappear as quickly as he arrived.

He can ask the duty nurse her status- Better yet, he can deduce it.

This has the dual attractions of both allowing him to feel clever and negating his need to walk into her room. Look at her. He's not sure he can bear to look at her like this-

At the thought Sherlock nods to himself, prepares to turn away and head into the night. He'll text John and Mary, tell them everything's alright. He might even give Lestrade an update. As he thinks this he flicks his coat collar up, checks through his pockets, his hand closing on his lighter-He's been dying for a smoke ever since he heard the news-

"You're a right bastard, do you know that, Sherlock Holmes?"

Meat Dagger's question stops him in his tracks and he frowns.

Turns to look more closely at the man. .

As Sherlock does so he notices his own reflection in the window beside Molly and the mystery of how this cretin noticed him is immediately solved.

Meat Dagger shakes his head- perhaps reading his realisation on his face- before leaning in to brush a strand of Molly's hair from her brow. She frowns in her sleep, twisting uncomfortably and at least Sherlock now knows that she's asleep and not comatose.

Meat Dagger's action causes a twist of emotion in Holmes' belly though, one which he likes not at all. It's one thing to be worried when he hears a friend has been hit by a car, it's quite another to get all touchy-feely at the notion of someone else laying hands on her. As if reading his reaction once more- repugnant thought- Meat Dagger smiles. Eyes him.

"Can't help but notice you're not defending yourself," he continues, his tone conversational. "Might lead me to deduce that you agree."

And he smiles at Molly.

At this Sherlock rolls his eyes. Sweeps into the hospital room.

He looks down his nose at Meat Dagger, pouring ever ounce of cynicism he can into his stare. (This is, he has it on the best authority, rather an impressive sight.)

"Take it from a professional," he drawls. "You're not deducing anything about me, Meat Dagger-"

Sherlock expects the other man to become angry- upset- at the nickname and the moment it memorialises. His soft, gentle heart might have been perfect for Molly Hooper but it's not going to protect him from Sherlock Holmes. Nothing will protect him from Sherlock Holmes. If he's put out by his words though, Meat Dagger doesn't let on. He doesn't show it, oh no.

Rather he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.

He eyes Sherlock as he does it, the attempt at nonchalance irritating the detective in some way he can't quite define.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Holmes?" he asks instead. "I didn't call you, and I know nobody else in the hospital did, so why are you here?"

"Why are you here?"

Sherlock turns the question around, making sure to sound bored. To sound unimpressed. He refuses to acknowledge how childish his reaction is.

Besides, he will not have this imbecile thinking he has… deduced things about him.

Meat Dagger's voice gentles though. His expression too. He looks at Molly again and there's something so tender in his gaze. It makes Sherlock grit his teeth on general bloody principles. "I'm still her in case of emergency person," he says quietly. "She never got around to changing it, even after we…"

And he lets his voice trail off. Squeezes her hand.

Sherlock finds it infuriating.

"After you dumped her?" the detective asks in a tooth-rotting, treacly tone. "After you ended your engagement and broke her heart?"

And he shoots the other man his Psychopath Smile, the one everyone's so afraid of.

Best let the other man have no doubt that he knows well what was done to Molly Hooper.

Meat Dagger though, he doesn't react as Holmes expects. No, rather he looks at him like he's the idiot in the room and lets out a short snort of laughter.

"Is that all you've got?" he asks. "Is that what the Great Detective's come up with? That I dumped her?"

Sherlock resolutely tells himself that he isn't sputtering, even as the words tumble haphazardly out of his mouth. "Of course you dumped her," he says, his tone disbelieving. "She'd never have let you go, she's not got that sort of cruelty-"

"-Even if she'd known she's not in love with me?"

And Meat Dagger smiles, a sad, wan smile.

At these words Sherlock blinks, surprised. Shocked actually.

There's something awfully uncomfortable about hearing such a bald statement coming from the man it's about.

"She dumped me," the other man continues quietly. He's staring at Molly awfully hard. "After your mate John's wedding, she just took me aside and told me she wanted to back out." He shakes his head. "It came out of nowhere, absolutely nowhere."

He shrugs.

"Given that, what was I supposed to do?"

Sherlock tries to find his voice, recover his equilibrium. He will not allow this idiot to set him off balance. And yet- "Why?" he demands, and it's none of his business, none of his concern.

He has no justification for asking, he knows that- But then it's never stopped him before.

Meat Dagger's smile is mirthless though. It makes him look older. Sterner. "Her version?" he says. "She couldn't marry someone she was willing to stab with a fork." His eyes flash. "You remember her stabbing me with the fork, don't you?" He snorts. "Course you do- She was trying to keep me from making a berk of myself in front of you."

His eyes turn dark. Faraway.

"My version?" he continues, and his voice hardens. Becomes almost mocking. For the first time it occurs to Sherlock that this man would probably like very much to thump him.

"My version is that she was still in love with a self-obsessed drama queen who wouldn't give her the time of day and yet won't let her get a life of her own-"

He leans forward, drops his voice to a whisper.

"In case you didn't deduce it, Mr. Holmes, that means you."

And without any warning he stands. Makes to move away. It's only now he's on his feet that Sherlock notices his unsteadiness, thinks to wonder whether he's had a drink or something else tonight. He drops Molly's hand sharply onto her blankets and it's entirely asinine but Sherlock feels a tiny thrill of alarm, as if she'll be hurt by the action (though this is, of course, ridiculous.)

His reaction must show on his face though for Meat Dagger's eyes narrow. His gaze turns probing. Searching.

And then he throws back his head and laughs out loud.

"You poor bastard," he says. "You haven't the first clue what to do about her, have you?"

Sherlock is affronted by the tone, the snideness of it. Who is Meat Dagger to think he understands him?

"I don't know what you're talking about," he snaps stiffly. "I merely wished to ascertain whether a dear friend was alright, after-"

"After nearly being killed by a drunk driver?" Meat Dagger supplies. "If it was a drunk driver and not that Moriarty bloke from off the telly." His expression twists with distaste. "Another prize bit of friendship, that, Mr. Holmes," he says. "Getting her mixed up with that psychopath…"

And before Sherlock can say anything he's on his feet, pushing his way out of the hospital room. He's rather unsteady on his feet but Sherlock doubts it's drink this time. He doubts that very much.

"Take care of yourself, Holmes," he says, and his tone makes it sound more like a threat or a curse. "It is, after all, what you're best at. And try not to get our girl killed, there's a good man…"

With that he's gone, head down. Hurrying.

His gait sways slightly, his face turning puce with emotion as he heads for the list.

Sherlock sits down. Takes his place. Stares at Molly. Beautiful, beautiful Molly.

Slowly, he takes her hand.

Slowly, he squeezes it.

She frowns in her sleep and he brushes her hair from her brow. Allows himself to imagine that he's a right to this place.

Tomorrow when she wakes up he'll be gone, pleading a case and his adventures and all sorts of security issues- All sorts of fun and deductions and games afoot-

But here and now he can be with her, and he tells himself that will have to do.