Falling, Friends, and French Toast

Fall.
Go on and fall apart.
Fall into these arms of mine
I'll catch you.
Everytime
you fall.
Go on and lose it all.
Every doubt, every fear
every worry, every tear
I'm right here.

"Did it go alright?" Molly asked timidly, watching as Sherlock Holmes strode down the entrance hallway to her flat.

"I'm not dead, am I?" Sherlock monotoned, unlooping his scarf from around his neck before he vanished into the sitting room.

Molly bit her lip and, after locking her front door, followed after the consulting detective.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?"

"I am fine," he replied, throwing his coat on the back of the sofa. He didn't stop moving long enough for Molly to really look at him, and the next thing she knew, he was already down the hall and in her bathroom.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock opened a few of her bathroom drawers until he found what he wanted- a washcloth- before turning on the tap and running the cloth under it.

"Don't hover, Molly. Isn't there some social convention that says you shouldn't follow someone into the bathroom?"

Molly tried not to blush. "Yes, but you're just washing your face..."

She could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes as he scrubbed the leftover blood away from his face.

"You can have a shower," Molly said quietly.

"Yes," was all Sherlock said in response.

She shifted uncomfortably. She didn't know how Sherlock was dealing with this. How could he just lay there and listen to John talk? The begging, the pain evident in his voice? How could he just listen to that and be alright?

Because, a small voice was saying to her, he is Sherlock Holmes and he does not have feelings.

But that wasn't true. He did have feelings. He did have a heart. And he did care.

"Sherlock..."

"Molly, I'm going to start stripping my clothes off now, so unless you would like to stay and witness that, I suggest you step out and close the door behind you."

Molly felt her face heat up as Sherlock turned to her, smiled briefly and sardonically.

"Sherlock-" Molly started, but Sherlock was true to his word. His jacket fell to the floor heavily and his deft fingers began to unbutton his shirt. "O-Okay, I'll just... I'll wait outside?"

"Probably for the best. Wouldn't want you to be permanently blushing everytime that you see me, albeit if that won't be much now."

Molly didn't know what to say, and Sherlock removed his shirt, and she hurriedly stepped outside the room and practically slammed the door in her haste.

This wasn't fair.

Here she was, a perfectly capable woman. She had a mind and a body and a will, but Sherlock Holmes took all of that, mixed it all up, and made her confused. All he had to do was smile and she would do anything that he wanted for her. She always hoped that one day, one day, something in Sherlock would change and he would see her as Molly, not as the pathologist or the embarrassed girl in the lab coat. Just one day she hoped that she would be able to talk to him without getting tongue-tied, without blushing. One day... She just wished that things were different.

She loved him. She'd figured that out a few years ago when he first started showing up at St. Barts. He was tall, dark, and mysterious. His eyes were captivating, his cheekbones were amazing, and even that was lacklustre word. His hair begged to be tousled, his lips to be kissed, and that look, that sad look that she had called him out on... She wanted to make sure that look never graced his beautiful features again.

And now, here was was, standing naked in her shower (Molly blushed), and it just wasn't fair.

She would do anything for him. He couldn't even be bothered to say 'hello'.

Molly sighed and went to make herself a cup of tea.

Molly didn't hear the shower turn off. She was curled up on the sofa in a pair of sweatpants and a fresh t-shirt, gently drawing her fingers through Toby's fur. The television was on, but Molly wasn't listening to it. Her mind was wandering and she was starting to get tired. She wanted nothing more than to go up in bed... but she was afraid that she'd never see Sherlock again if she did and she hated the fact that he would leave without saying goodbye.

"Thank you."

Sherlock's voice made Molly jump.

She looked over her shoulder, watching the detective as he towel-dried his hair. He was dressed in another button-down and his usual black trousers.

"What?" Molly asked, frowning.

"I said 'thank you', obviously," he said immediately, sounding annoyed. But then he sighed. "For your help, I mean. The faked death and... putting up with me."

"Oh," Molly said lamely. "O-Oh, I mean, I told you that if there was anything that you needed, you could just ask..."

He nodded, draping the towel over his arm. "That is why I asked." He paused. "You trusted me, and you believed in me, when the rest of the world doesn't."

"I'll always believe in you," Molly said automatically.

Sherlock's stare made her want to squirm but she settled with brushing her hair out of her face instead.

But then he smiled, the sarcastic smile. "You wouldn't say that if you knew who I really was."

"I do know who you are..."

Molly blushed again. She didn't know why she was saying all of this; Sherlock probably hated her all the more for it. They were the automatic responses that jumped to her mind. She would always believe in him and she believed that the Sherlock standing in front of her now, the slightly awkward, slightly unsure, but genuinely grateful Sherlock, was the real Sherlock. Not that unsentimental, heartless, sociopathic machine that he tried to seem to be.

He did have emotions. He did care. Molly knew this.

Molly knew the real Sherlock. If no one else did, she knew him and that was all that mattered. He had one friend in this unforgiving world, at least.

"... Er, w-would you like a cup of tea?" Molly asked hesitantly, looking back towards Sherlock.

Sherlock watched her for a moment, his eyes deducing and his brows pulled together. Molly didn't know what he was looking for but he clearly couldn't find it, and a moment later, his gaze returned to normal.

"Tea does sound good, doesn't it?" he asked absently. "It's been a long day."

"It has..." Molly agreed, standing. "Sit down. Make yourself at, uhm, home."

Sherlock didn't respond, but there was the creak of the recliner as Sherlock sat. Molly walked to the kitchen and poured two cups of tea, one for herself and one for Sherlock.

It was weird, the presence of Sherlock Holmes sitting in her sitting room. He took the cup of tea without looking up; his attention was locked on his mobile.

There were plans to make, Molly was sure...

She sat back down and sipped at her tea, watching Sherlock when she thought he wasn't watching. She drank her tea and watched him for awhile, and then she let her attention divert to the television, and sometime, around ten o' clock, Molly found herself stifling her yawning behind her hands.

"Go to sleep, Molly."

Molly jumped again and looked towards Sherlock.

"You keep yawning. Go to bed."

Molly ignored that. "How long are you going to stay?"

"Just the night."

"You should stay until breakfast, at least. I could make you-"

"No, no, no, don't be stupid. I've already inconvenienced you enough."

Molly sighed, falling silent again. She did not, however, go to bed. She was determined to stay awake longer, to share these last hours with the man that she was in love with but would never be with. It would be a long time before she got to see him again... She didn't know how she knew that, but she knew.

"You're welcome..." she mumbled, tiredly, a long while later.

"Hmm?"

"You said 'thanks'... and I said 'you're welcome'..."

The tap of Sherlock's fingers as he texted paused. Molly could feel eyes on her, but she had her own eyes closed and she didn't want to open them just yet. She was tired... She'd go get another cup of tea in a few minutes...

"... Right."

The tapping resumed and Molly smiled faintly.

When she opened her eyes again, there was daylight streaming through the windows. The television was off and the flat was silent.

Molly was dismayed at the fact that she had fallen asleep. She knew that Sherlock had already left. It was too quiet for him to be in the flat.

She sat up, stretching. That's when she noticed the blanket draped around her shoulders. That hadn't been there last night... Had Sherlock... No... But he had to have had...

Molly smiled sadly, folding the blanket before placing it on the back of the sofa. She glanced towards the kitchen- not expecting anything, but prompted to look all the same- when her attention was drawn to a note on her fridge that hadn't been there last night.

She picked it up hesitantly.

Molly,
Keep them safe. My secret is in your hands.
Thank you.
- S

P.S. Breakfast is in the oven.

Molly frowned and looked towards the oven. It was on a low-setting and Molly opened the oven door with some trepidation.

There was a plate of pancakes and french toast.

Molly blinked and picked up the worn oven mitt, taking the plate out of the oven. The pancakes and toast were still warm, thanks to the oven. They smelled delicious. It looked like the pancakes had chocolate chips in them, too.

Molly smiled, although she felt sad.

"No, Sherlock..." she murmured, although no one was there to hear, "thank you. On behalf of all of us... You're a hero that the world will never know..."

And then she realized what she was saying and realized that she sounded like an idiot, and she put the plate on the table and turned away, blushing once again.

I do not own Sherlock. The lyrics to Fall are owned by Clay Walker and all of his affiliates.

Thank you!