NOTE: Firstly, I must apologise a thousand times for such a lengthy delay in this story. These past few months have been pretty rough in my personal life and I have sadly lost my motivation for writing. It is only just beginning to come back to me, however I must admit, this chapter took a lot for me to write. Again, my apologies for the shortness of this chapter, but I feel so awful for making you all wait so long. I promise I'm back now and will continue this story more regularly. Thank you, thank you for all your reviews. They mean the world to me and I don't know what I would do without your kindness. Please enjoy and please feel free to let me know of any mistakes, etc.

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Chapter Twenty-Three: Molly takes care of Sherlock.

If Molly was going to take one memory, any clear and vivid memory away from the whole experience of going undercover, it would be the night of Sherlock's poisoning. She would take away, voluntary or not, the sound of his ragged, pained breathing, his sheer panic and utter confusion, so unlike his usual self. She would remember intensely, the quivering of his body, the sweat across his brow, all across his skin that soaked his clothing and the look of helplessness in his piercing blue eyes.

With silent movements and silent tears, Molly checked his current state, the drip, his heart rate, desperately seeking the reassurance that he was on his way to recovery. However, Molly knew she could not be fully certain he would be well for at least five more days. If he lived for five days, he was likely to recover. If not…

Five days.

In the early hours of the morning, she had managed to guide Sherlock over to the comfort of the bed in the room, despite his agitated state and worry over the slightest of things, his constant worrying over her safety. The curtain must have been hiding someone behind it. Someone was under the bed and would strike them. At one point he was certain he heard a noise coming from the bathroom and that Carter had once again found some way of accessing the room to expose them.

Molly reminded him repeatedly of his mind palace and with little fight, he relaxed into the bed with the drip by his side. She watched with apprehension, perched carefully on a nearby chair, as the consulting detective slowly let sleep envelope him, not going without a struggle, eyes flickering open and shut for as long as he could manage.

She would not fall asleep. No matter what her body urged of her, no matter how much she wanted to, she could not comprehend the thought of being responsible for the death of the love of her life. Molly had to watch him with an eagle eye. She calculated Sherlock's every breath to make sure he was okay. She watched his chest rise and fall and his eyes move restlessly under their lids. With her chair pulled right by his side, she held his clammy hand in her own.

Before she knew it, dawn crept through the window, burnt orange crawling along the carpet until it hit the edge of the bed and spread warmth along her back. Molly rubbed her tired face, checking his drip once again before resting her forehead against his still arm. There was no way to tell how long her head rested there. Molly swore not to fall asleep, but the strain of the previous evening had taken its toll. The Pathologist was woken by the soft caress of a hand on her hair. Sherlock's hand. With instant realisation, her head whipped up to find two blue eyes staring.

"Molly." Sherlock whispered, his worn face raised somewhat from the pillow.

"Sherlock." Instinctively, she stood and ran her hand along his forehead, causing him to rest it back down with an uneven sigh, "It's a good sign you're awake."

"Yes." Was his simple reply, "We need to be heading back to our quarters."

Molly reached for the tablets of activated charcoal, passing one to him to take. He did so with no resistance, indicating to Molly that sensible, right minded Sherlock was returning, "You're too weak."

"We have no choice." He pulled back the sheet and strained to sit up. Impulsively she helped him, "We need to stick with the plan. We return to our room this morning as though we've been out since the ball."

Sherlock stood, leaning on Molly for full support, she being able to feel the shaking of his entire being. There was no way she could possibly imagine what he was currently going through. The pain must have been unbearable. And yet, with no hesitance, he began to pull on a fresh suit readily provided, the curls atop his head still coated in sweat. He struggled with the simplest of things, pulling a shirt over his shoulders, the buttons at the front. Molly helped him as best she could, though whilst repeatedly questioning him about whether it was a good idea to leave the room just yet.

They cleared up the evidence of having being in said room, Molly concealing the remaining drips so that they could continuing using them in their quarters. Sherlock kept hold of the charcoal, taking responsibility of them.

When it was safe to do so, the pair left the room, none of the staff having risen yet to start their day and so they found themselves with a quiet walk back. Just to be on the safe side, they talked about Raymond suffering pains in his stomach, the same when they were in the room with microphones. Sherlock didn't need to act the pain he was feeling. Molly had to joke about it, because they were not supposed to know the seriousness of the situation. She muttered something about Raymond having eaten something dodgy at the party. Sherlock joked back about the quality of the chef Carter must have hired.

Soon, full daylight consumed them. The beautiful rays of sunlight did nothing to ease what they were going through. There could have been a storm blowing outside and Molly would not have noticed. All of her attention was on Sherlock. It would be for the next five, tiresome days.

"I'm going to rest, my love. This pain is unbearable." The Pathologist helped him into bed, Sherlock not even bothering to undress apart from his jacket. As quietly as she could, Molly set him up once again on the drip, knowing they had to act with complete caution, just in case they were intruded by Carter or one of his men.

John and Mary visited mid-morning, playing the happy, loved up couple coming down from the high of a party. They asked about Raymond, Molly brushing off his absence with a simple, "He must have drank too much. Suffering from a hangover I believe." A look passed between the three of them, all comprehending the different ways in which this scenario could play out. They all hoped and prayed that Sherlock was strong enough to not be defeated by Set Carter. He was nothing in comparison to Moriarty. The consulting detective would get through this.

-!-

There was no word from Carter that day. Molly had expected him to urgently want news of the state of Raymond's health, however, there was nothing. She, nor Mary and John caught sight of him through the castle. There were no run ins with Anna, just members of staff going about their daily duties to keep the palace in good working order. It seemed strange to them, considering the sadistic nature of their host. All had expected him to drown himself in the views of Raymond in pain, enjoying every second as he watched a man die. Though, it seemed he was keeping his distance. This frightened Molly to her core, because suddenly, for the first time, Carter was being unpredictable.

Three days passed before there was a sighting of him. He and Anna noisily drove up the gravel pathway in a nineteen fifties lagonda drophead coupe, skidding to a halt outside the doorway and laughing their way inside. Molly witnessed the whole thing from the second floor window at the top of the stairs, as she headed back to check on Sherlock. She was utterly perplexed to see Anna so at ease with the husband she so hated. She seemed full of pure joy and happiness, nothing she had ever seen from the woman before.

With her curiosity peeked, Molly hid herself behind the wall and listened intently as the pair burst happily through the main entrance.

"Ah Rupert, my old boy." There was the sound of a pat on the shoulder, "Any news on my guests?"

"Yes sir," the butler replied, "One has been taken ill these past few days."

"Is that so?"

"Yes sir, Mr Mathews sir."

The tone of Carter's voice made Molly want to heave, "How unfortunate. I do hope proper care has been provided for him?"

"Yes, Mrs Mathews has kept a close eye on him and we informed her if there was anything she needed, she dare not hesitate to ask."

"The best of hosts in my absence, Rupert. Tell them to dine with me this evening. I look forward to discussing plans with my newest members. Thankyou, that will be all."

"Thankyou, sir."

Anna and Carter voices grew louder, heading in Molly's direction. With haste, she made her way back to their quarters, not sure what to make of what she had heard. Carter seemed as though he even had his staff members fooled into believing he was a nice man. There was no way they could be hidden from the way in which he made his money, however it did not seem as though they were bound to him involuntarily. There was a sense that they were genuinely pleased to work for him.

Molly was in no mind to think about that now. Her concern was for Sherlock and Sherlock alone. Thankfully, he had appeared to be recovering with ever passing day, no longer confining himself to the bed. However Molly would not be satisfied until five full days had passed. That meant a couple more days before they could be certain. He could suddenly sway another way and be lost to them forever.

"How are you feeling today?" Molly sat beside him on the sofa, watching in silence as he took another tablet.

"Much better." He strained a smile, ready to emit something down the microphones, "With you at my side, the world seems a whole lot brighter."

"Why thank you." Molly smiled back and for the first time since Sherlock was poisoned, just from the simple look he gave her, she felt positive about his recovery. She worried every second within her mind, however every passing minute, it felt as though he became stronger and was leaving behind the Sherlock that had left her feeling uneasy. When he was close by, he was Sherlock. Strong, confident Sherlock who was fearless and brave. Without permission, she reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone, typing a message for him to read.

I just saw Anna and Carter appearing extremely loved up. She clearly doesn't hate him as she has led us to believe.

He read the message, deleted, typed and passed the phone back, with no hint of emotion upon his face.

Anything that has been said cannot be trusted. I'm confident both are equally willing to be in this lifestyle. Anna is as much the criminal as Carter.

Molly nodded in response.

I agree. We're going to be invited to dinner soon. Do you think you will feel up to it?

Sherlock typed his reply and stood from the sofa. Molly read the message and looked up at him. Sherlock, with his hands in his pockets, smirked his famous smirk before winking and heading for their bedroom.

I look forward to it.