Rating: K

Spoilers: Series 3 Finale "His Last Vow."

Summary: Molly & Sherlock in the hospital during "His Last Vow."

Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and places are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffatt and the BBC . This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognised characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Author's Notes: I wrote this because I figured Molly would have gone to see him at least once in the hospital. Plus, I felt the anger she had a the start of the episode was still unresolved by the end.

Quick, quiet steps and the swift flicking of pages on a chart alerted him to the presence of a visitor. The clean scent with an underlay of the sweetness of honeysuckle confirmed her identity.

Beneath hooded lids he observed her step towards the head of the bed, her bottom lip captured beneath her teeth, a habit she had not outgrown from her teenage years that he found made her look somewhat younger than her thirty two years. Leaning forward, she checked the readings on the machine by his bed, frowning at the level of morphine being administered to his system. Before she could turn away, he grasped her arm firmly and she let out a surprised squeak. He found the sound comforting coming from his pathologist.

"This is the first time you've come to see me," his voice was rough from sleep and lack of use and he observed her eyes dilate slightly at the sound.

Her breathing steadying, she frowned at him, "yes."

"You're still upset with me."

Her spine straightened, mouth tightening and hands clenching as she jerked away from his grasp. "Yes." Oh yes, Molly Hooper was definitely upset.

"You have no reason to be angry with me," he frowned at her, "It was for the work. You know nothing takes precedence over my work."

"You could have died Sherlock. You'd been shot, nearly killed, you weren't supposed to leave the hospital!"

"Some things are more important."

"More important than your life?" she questioned indignant.

"Oh, do stop being so melodramatic, Molly. I was never in any real danger, I had everything planned perfectly."

"Just like the drugs I suppose?"

"You overreacted," his hands tightened and he looked away from her, unwilling to meet her gaze.

"You promised, Sherlock," she whispered, eyes shining brightly, "You said never again. You lied."

He felt a stab of something he refused to name at her disappointment. "People lie all the time, Molly, it is a symptom of the human condition. Besides, I already told you, it was for a case!"

"A case?" the disbelief in her face was painful to see directed at him, "w-what case is worth risking your life and your mind for?" his cold silence only seemed to infuriate her further, and he was rather glad he was in the hospital bed otherwise he feared there may well have been a repeat performance of the slapping incident in the lab. He winced as he moved in the bed, the sharp pain in his chest radiating and pulsating along his nerve endings.

"And what about the rest of us? Or do we mere mortals not figure into the grand plan of the great Sherlock Holmes?" Her whole body seemed to thrum with anger, the vibrations reaching towards him in jagged waves.

"When John called I thought..." she looked away from him, her arms crossed protectively against her chest.

"You thought I'd overdosed."

She nodded jerkily, her lips pressed tightly together into a thin line. "I was there the first time Sherlock," she told him quietly, "I saw what you became. I won't watch you become that man again."

His eyes narrowed at that declaration, wheels whirring in his mind. "What are you saying?"

"You know exactly what I'm saying, Sherlock." She stepped closer towards him, eyes finally meeting his, challenging him, brown eyes boring into aqua marine. "I will not watch you go through that again. If you ever put another needle in your arm again I will not have you anywhere near St. Barts. Understood?"

He frowned, eyes narrowed at this new assertive Molly Hooper who had shown herself in the recent months since his return from the dead. "I liked you better when you were trying to date me."

Eventually, he looked away, and inclined his head, acknowledging her statement.

"Understood."

She straightened to her height, quickly brushing away the moisture that had been burning in the corners of her eyes.

"Good." She pasted a false, cheery smile on her face. "Now how are you feeling?"

He crossed his arms over his bare chest, refusing to meet her eye. "You read my chart, and you have already observed that I have reduced my morphine levels. You know how I am."

Sighing, she shook her head, clearing it of cobwebs. "I'm glad you're okay. I was worried."

"If you were that worried you would have visited when I was first admitted," he sneered, "I know John called you."

She shrugged, "I was working. Besides, I didn't think you'd need me."

He looked sharply at her, opening his mouth to say something, refute her claim, although he didn't know why. Sherlock Holmes did not need Molly Hooper. He had John to fill that social need, he didn't need or want anyone else.

"Anyway," Molly continued, "I'm sure your girlfriend was looking after you. You hardly needed me around to take care of you too."

He frowned at her, eyebrows drawn together. "That's not what it seems," he told her slowly, "I'm working on a case."

Molly suddenly stilled, the bright smile disappearing from her face. "Please tell me you're not going out with a good friend of Mary Watson for a case?"

"Of course I was. Why else would I have a girlfriend? A sudden requirement for emotion and sentiment?" he scoffed.

"Oh, I see. And would this case be the same case that required you to become an addict again?"

"Yes it is, and for the last time I'm not an addict," he rubbed his forehead with his hand in frustration, "how many times do I have to say it before you get it through your bubblegum skull? I. Was. Working. On. A. Case!"

She regarded him calmly, ignoring the jibes. "I admire your mind, Sherlock. It fascinates me, but I have to wonder what is going on in there when you start taking on cases that require you to take illegal substances that have harmed you in the past, and become some sort of male gigilo!"

He started, affronted, wincing at the sudden movement, "I am not a gigilo!"

"And what about Janine? Did you take into consideration her feelings and emotions, or did you just stamp all over them like you normally do?"

He laughed derisively, "Janine is not deserving of your concern, Molly. She is a money grabbing, fame hungry media whore."

"Yes, I saw," she smiled tightly, "seven times a night? Impressive." She paused suddenly, a hesitation that he caught straight away as she tried to avoid his gaze and smother a smile.

"What?" he demanded, "what were you going to say?"

She shrugged nervously, "I was just going to say that's almost as good as Tom."

"You do realise she lied to the papers? That it was all made up twaddle?" he snapped frostily.

"Of course."

"Of course?" he repeated offended, "what do you mean 'of course?' a man of my age, excellent health and stamina would be able to perform a satisfactory number of times during the course of a night." He twisted his lips in what Molly could only describe as a pout. "I could outperform Tom with little difficulty," he muttered.

A warm pink suffused her face as, unbidden, the thought of asking him to prove it surfaced in her mind. Banishing the same thought to the recesses of her brain, she regarded his petulance. Her lips twitched and she twisted the hem of the blanket on his bed between her fingers, trying not to let her eyes linger on his pale muscles on full display in his current state of undress. He relaxed a little, his indignation fading. "If I wanted to I could have quite a lot of sex also."

She blushed prettily, gently biting her lower lip between two pearly teeth. "I shouldn't have said that. About Tom, to you, I mean. I don't know why I said that."

"Of course you do, Molly," Sherlock intoned, "you were trying to make me jealous."

"No I wasn't," she argued, though at his raised brow she looked away, "well at least not consciously." She frowned at him, a thought occurring to her, "how do you remember me saying that anyhow? I thought you deleted all unnecessary information from your brain to keep room for all the important stuff."

He cleared his throat, and shifted a little in the bed. "I haven't gotten around to deleting items in your room yet."

"Room?" she echoed, "I have a room...in your mind."

"Yes," he replied, "try not to read anything into it, Molly, nearly everyone of my acquaintance has some sort of space in my Mind Palace."

"But do they have a room?" she insisted.

"Obviously, only the important people in my life have rooms. You are one of the lucky few. Congratulations," he smirked, enjoying the turn of the conversation, feeling that he was again gaining the upper hand and back on solid ground.

"Thank you," she sounded genuinely stunned and he stared at her, annoyed with her surprise at this admission.

"You are surprised."

"Yes," she admitted.

"Why are you so surprised, Molly?" his anger surprised even himself, but he appeared unable to control himself. He would blame it on the painkillers. "How could you possibly still think you are somehow insignificant in my life?"

She looked down at the floor, shaking her head, "I don't know, Sherlock. I just...I-I don't know."

"Molly," he commanded, "look at me."

She met his eyes, determination and sincerity shining back at her. He held her gaze, unwilling to allow her to look away. He hesitated momentarily, he had never meant to reveal this to her, ever, but felt it was only right to reveal the truth to her. He cleared his throat and gripped the sheets in front of him.

"When I was shot, the first person I thought of was you."

Her intake of breath at his admission was audible. "Me?" she whispered, voice shaking, eyes growing wet.

"You," he confirmed, "you are the person I look to, the person I trust to save me when I need saving. You were there, in my mind, helping me stay alive."

She stood in silence, seemingly unable to utter a word. He frowned in annoyance, "your continual belittlement of your place in my work and life is extremely irritating. You keep me focused, you are always there when I need you, Molly. Moriarty may have been blind to your importance in my life, but I am not, and I would thank you not to make such presumptions on my behalf."

She blinked rapidly, a tear escaping which she hurriedly brushed aside. "Well then," she whispered shakily, "I guess I'm glad I was able to help you when you needed it."

"You always do," he replied sincerely, features softening fractionally, "that's my blessing and your curse. You are my secret strength I don't want the world to know about. So, yes, Molly Hooper, I do need you. I will always need you."

"And I'll always be here, Sherlock," she reached out and covered his hand with her own, gently squeezing it, "I promise."

She smiled one last time at him and turned to walk away. "I should go, my shift starts soon. John will be along in a minute, he'll be glad to see you're awake."

Sherlock watched her go but called her back before she could walk through the door. Molly turned back to him and he found himself struggling to find the right words.

"I am no good at recognising or communicating emotions easily and the work always comes first, but..."

He stared at her, finding her warm gaze a safe haven in the hospital room. "I...apologise if my recent actions have caused you pain or..." he swallowed audibly, "have caused you to lose faith in me."

"Oh Sherlock," she whispered, "don't you understand? I was upset because I have so much faith in you. You're brilliant, and I want you to stay brilliant."

"I don't think that will be a problem, Molly," the corner of his mouth lifted, "I don't know how to be anything else."

She grinned at him, her soft laugh staying with him as the door swung behind her.