A/N: Yeah...I couldn't leave it there, could I? Still spoilers for 3x01, of course. There'll also be a third (and final) installment posted in the next couple of days.

Thinking Time

by Flaignhan

He tries to cling on to his senses, but everything's a blur. His head is spinning, the roar of the traffic deafening him, and no matter how surefooted he tries to be, he can only stumble and stagger along the pavement, leaving a trail of scarlet splatters behind him. He refuses to go to a hospital, where they will take advantage of his disorientation and dose him with painkillers while they stitch him back together, and besides the nearest A&E department is two and a half miles away. He can't make it that far. Bart's is closer, but even closer than that, is a tower block stretching high into the sky, windows warmly lit, inhabitants silhouetted against the walls and the flicker of televisions disrupting the peace.

He knows which is her window, and the light is on. If he squints, he can see the outline of Toby, grooming himself on the window sill, and he pushes on, forcing one foot in front of the other until he reaches the double doors at the base of the tower. He haphazardly enters the key code, leaving bloody fingerprints all over the stainless steel buttons, but it doesn't matter, because the lock releases and he practically falls through the doors, grabbing hold of a fire extinguisher bolted to the wall in a vain attempt to regain some balance.

There is the horrible, metallic taste of blood in his mouth, and he refrains from spitting it out, knowing that Molly will pull a face when she next leaves the flat. He hammers the button for the lift, leaning heavily against the cold, whitewashed wall, his head swimming, dizziness increasing by the second. When he reaches the fourteenth floor, he lurches into the corridor and falls face first into the ancient wooden door of one of the flats. As his breathing becomes more ragged, and the darkness threatens to swallow him whole, his lips stretch into a weak smile, knowing that he's going to be just fine.

"What the hell happened to him?"

"I don't know, do I?"

"Does he do this often?"

No answer.

The lights are too bright, but he's too tired to lift his arm and protect his eyes, so he merely squeezes them shut tighter, ignoring the pain in his temple as he does so.

"Should we take him to hospital?"

"No, he hates hospitals."

"But he's always at Bart's - "

"That's different."

Even though they're speaking in hushed voices, it feels as though they're bellowing their words, his ears ringing with every syllable. Despite the grogginess that's dragging at his entire being, he feels more together, and knows that he's going to make a full recovery. The sofa is sufficiently comfortable for him to be happy to spend the night here, and Molly has relieved him of his coat and jacket. She's even rolled his sleeves up for him.

A weight settles on his stomach, warm and recognisable.

"Get down," Molly hisses, but Sherlock stretches out his fingers, and Toby nuzzles his head into Sherlock's hand, realising that if he wants to be petted, he's going to have to do most of the work himself. Sherlock scratches his ears lazily, and Toby purrs contentedly, rolling onto his side and stretching out across Sherlock's stomach.

"You awake?" Molly breathes.

He nods, but the movement sends pain shooting through him, his stomach churning, and so he decides that he's best off leaving movement until the morning.

"Need anything?"

"No," he mumbles, before inhaling deeply, his ribs sore from the pounding they've taken, and letting his breath escape in a quiet sigh.

"Don't you want any painkillers?" Tom asks. "We've got some paracetamol in the first aid kit."

"He's allergic," Molly says before Sherlock can even think about mumbling anything. His eyebrows draw into a frown. Why on Earth would she say that? Is she really so worried about what her precious fiancé will think of him if he finds out that he used to be a dirty junkie? Does his past really reflect so badly upon her? Is she that ashamed of him? Does she wish he'd fallen onto someone else's doorstep instead, and saved her the humiliation?

He pushes himself up onto his elbows and opens his eyes, squinting in the bright light while Tom mumbles on about his allergy being 'rotten luck'.

"Turn the lights down, Tom," Molly says gently. Tom obliges, and when Sherlock no longer feels as though he's having his retinas barbecued, his vision comes into focus and he can see her, clear as day in the dim light. Everything falls into place upon seeing her expression. She's not concerned about what Tom thinks, but rather how Sherlock feels about Tom knowing. He should have realised that from the outset, and he feels a pang of guilt at having assumed the worst of her. She doesn't give a damn about his past, and is well aware of the darker shades of days gone by.

He lets out a soft sigh, grimacing as his ribs flare with pain again.

"It's not broken," she tells him, glancing down at the lower left side of rib cage. "Bruised, but you'll be all right."

"I'm always all right," he says, withdrawing his hand from Toby and raising it to his face to try and inspect the damage, but Molly intervenes, pulling his hand away from his face, her fingers closing gently around his palm. Her hands are dry from frequent washing with harsh hospital soap, despite the fact that on work days she moisturises three times and twice at weekends. He normally only ever pays attention to her hands when they're shielded by latex gloves and half buried in the abdomen of a cadaver, but now, he pays attention to the seemingly mundane things. At least with her, he does.

He looks up at her, meeting her worried brown eyes, but she pulls her hand away as though he has burned her.

"Tea?" she asks, standing abruptly and looking to Tom.

"I'll make it, sweetheart," he says, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. "How d'you take yours, Sherlock?"

"He'll have water," Molly answers, saving him the trouble. "Caffeine's probably not the best idea for him at the moment."

"Rightio," Tom says cheerfully, before he disappears into the kitchen. Molly lets out a shaky breath and sinks back down to the floor, leaning her shoulder against the sofa, watching him carefully, her lips pressed together.

"What happened?" she asks, her words almost indecipherable due to her mumble, but he's used to her, all her quirks and habits.

"Was investigating a murder," he says, wincing as he tries to straighten up. "Apparently there were a couple of East End mobsters involved."

She laughs. She can't help herself. "Mobsters? In this day and age?"

"Oh yeah," he murmurs. "They like to keep things how they were in the good old days." He puts on a faux cockney accent, forcing a bit roughness into his voice and she giggles, her eyes fixed on the blank television screen, rather than his battered face. He wants to reach out and touch her. No idea why, just wants to know that she's absolutely physically there. Having that confirmed (even though he knows that she is there and this isn't a hallucination brought on by concussion) would make him feel so much better. He knows it doesn't make sense, but he's learned that in matters such as this, nothing really makes sense at all, and logic, as much has he swears by it…well sometimes, maybe, the sarcastic voice in his head ought to be muted, and the quiet whisper of his heart acknowledged.

"Here we are," Tom says brightly, setting a glass of water on the coffee table, then handing a mug of tea to Molly. "Can I open the chocolate digestives?"

"Yeah," Molly says vaguely, bringing her knees up to her chest and resting her mug on them. Tom disappears again and Molly turns to face Sherlock, her teeth tugging softly against the inside of her lower lip, her frown deepening as she takes in his injuries. "They could have killed you," she tells him.

He shakes his head. "Nah, not me."

"I wouldn't have been there to help you fake it," she says with a shrug, and turns away again.

"Good point…" he replies. He wants to say something, because she's obviously not happy about the situation, but he's never been good with this sort of thing, not on any real level when the emotions on the other end are important to him in ways other than simply a means to an end.

Tom returns to the lounge with a plateful of chocolate digestives and places them on the coffee table, within reach of Sherlock and Molly, takes a couple for himself, then retreats to the armchair. He's irritatingly pleasant, and even more irritatingly, present, and so Sherlock simply pushes out a smile, the reflection of which Molly catches in the television screen, her own smile forming as well.

"Swelling's gone down, at any rate," Tom comments, gesturing with half a biscuit towards Sherlock's face.

"Yes," Sherlock says, lying back on the sofa so he doesn't have to look at him. Toby seems pleased with this return to comfort, and pushes himself up towards Sherlock's chest, stretching out his legs, his claws catching on Molly's hair. Sherlock untangles it before either of them have a chance to react, then busies his hand by petting Toby, who purrs approvingly.

He lies there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to block out every crunch and munch as Tom eats his beloved biscuits, and is painfully aware of the fact that if he shifts his hand just eight inches to the left, he could brush the back of his fingers against Molly's shoulder blade. The more he thinks about it, the more tempting it is, but her fiancé is sitting five feet away from him and it would be wrong of him, incredibly wrong, to do such a thing. He shouldn't be trying to stir up trouble, but he's yet to see her grin like an buffoon when talking about Tom, yet to see a blush rise in her cheeks, and there's not even a hint of bridal magazines in the flat.

But it's her decision, and he shouldn't try to sway her either way. This should be about what she wants.

But does she even know that he's an option? After all, she's not about to cast aside her pale imitation for a couple of days solving crimes every so often, she's not that much of an idiot. He lets out a heavy sigh, his ribs twinging unpleasantly. He realises too late that his frustration is only apparent to himself (quite rightly) and that as such, should have been contained.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he says. "Just sore."

"Where?" Molly asks, putting her mug down and manoeuvring herself onto her knees. "Let me see."

"Head," he lies. Well, it's not a complete lie. It certainly smarts, but his pain threshold is such that it's not an issue. The alternative is telling her that he wants her fiancé to get lost so he can be alone with her - and do what, exactly? a sneering voice interrupts - and he's not sure how well that would go down. Tom's unlikely to take kindly to it.

She tilts his head gently upwards, her hands resting on either side of his face, so she can inspect the deep gash on the right side of his forehead. She's done a decent enough job of stitching it, he can tell, just from the way it feels, but she's naturally still worried because she's Molly, and that's what Molly does.

"I still think you should get an x-ray," she says, one hand leaving his face to brush his hair away from his wounds. "Head injuries are -"

"I'm fine," he tells her, looking up to meet her gaze. "Promise."

She sinks back, her hands falling away from him and coming to rest in her lap. "Sleep here tonight," she says, her eyes fixed on her knees. "So I can keep an eye on you. You can't spend the night at Baker Street on your own."

He bites his tongue, knowing that if he invites her to spend the night at Baker Street with him, he'll likely incur further injuries. "Okay," he says, when he can trust himself to speak. "Okay."

"You can have the bed," she says. "Get some proper rest. You won't get much sleep on this thing."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm quite comfortable here," he tells her. "But thank you anyway."

"But -"

"I'm not going to kick you out of your own bed," he tells her. He's taken enough from her in the past, he can't just allow her to give up her bed as well, no matter how much he's longing for a proper mattress and fluffy pillows. Molly smiles, a breath of laughter escaping her lips, and Sherlock quirks a questioning eyebrow.

"I dunno," she says with a shrug. "It's just…there was a time when you'd have expected the bed."

"Maybe…" he says slowly, concentrating hard on stroking Toby, his gaze averted from Molly and especially Tom. "I just assumed that everything I wanted, I could have. No effort. And maybe…" he pauses, nearly finding the courage to look at her, but bailing at the last minute, "I've realised that's not how the world works."

"Quite the epiphany you've had there," she says, her voice shaky as she tries to make a joke to ease the tension. Tom is still crunching away on his biscuits, and apparently hasn't picked up on a single word of their conversation.

"Well," he says, "I've had a lot of thinking time."

"I imagine you have," she replies, then, changing the subject, says, "D'you want a blanket? Or some pillows?"

"No, I'll be fine," he says. "Thank you."

"Try and get some sleep though," she says, and he finds that he's closing his eyes, content to lay there, petting Toby, his head propped up by a sparkly scatter cushion. "I'll be here if you need me."

"Okay," he murmurs, and he starts to close the doors on his thoughts, shutting down his brain (as much as he can) for the night. It won't do to lay awake all night, not when Molly's worrying about him. She's barely touched her tea, not even glanced at the biscuits, and if she chews her bottom lip any more she might well draw blood.

"Sweetheart, if you're tired, I don't mind staying up and…keeping an eye on things."

There's that irritating niceness again. Doesn't he have a dog to go home and feed? Or parents, friends, family to go and spend time with? This time Sherlock manages to suppress his sigh, all the while mentally imploring Molly to decline the offer.

"S'okay," she says, "Anyway, he's so stubborn that even if he does need anything, he won't ask you for it."

The corners of his mouth twitch into a smirk and bizarrely, he can sense that she notices.

"But he'll ask you?" Tom replies uncertainly.

"I threw a corpse out of a window for him," she says sheepishly. "He knows he can ask me for something to drink."

"Of course," Tom sighs, getting out of the armchair. "Yeah, I was forgetting, corpse, window, et cetera…I'll be er…getting off to bed then."

Sherlock smirks, but his happiness vanishes when he feels Molly get up, hears her pad over to where Tom is, and then has to suffer the irritation of the quick kiss they share. He stops stroking Toby, who rolls onto his front, his claws pressing into Sherlock's chest, and when Sherlock opens his eyes, he sees that he is, as suspected, on the receiving end of a yellow glare. He doesn't care though, and it's not until Tom has bid both him and Molly goodnight, and closed the bedroom door behind him, that Sherlock exhales in relief. Toby makes himself comfortable as Sherlock resumes his petting, and seconds later, Molly is back in her spot on the floor, neglecting the now empty armchair, despite the obvious comfort benefits.

"What?" she asks flatly.

"What?"

"The sigh."

Sherlock pauses. "Nice," he says, opening his eyes again to look at her. He pulls a face and she smiles, the expression washing away the drained worry that he knows he has painted on her. "He's just nice, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Molly says, "he is."

"And biscuits…" Sherlock continues. "He likes biscuits…"

Molly giggles at this.

"Bet your biscuit bill's gone up since you started seeing him."

She bites her lip, her eyes alight with humour and he finds himself looking at her for far too long.

"Get some sleep," she says quietly. "Please."

"Why? So I'll stop talking?"

She shakes her head. "I'm still in half a mind to take you to A&E."

"Well I suppose I can sleep for a while," he says, turning his head back so he's looking at the ceiling once more, before he closes his eyes.

"I'll be right here if you need anything."

"I know," he says. "I know."

He must fall asleep at some point, because he wakes up, bleary eyed, slightly dazed, with Toby having decided that the armchair is preferable to Sherlock's chest. The clock on the wall tells him it's half past four, and he looks towards Molly, whose head is leaning against his leg, her eyes closed, arms wrapped around her knees. Sherlock brushes his thumb against her cheek, and her eyelids flutter open. He withdraws his hand before anything becomes awkward, and she sits up straight, looking around the flat, as though expecting something to have changed during her nap.

"Go to bed," Sherlock tells her, his voice low. "I'll be fine."

"But -"

"I'll be fine," he repeats. "I promise."

Molly sighs and pushes herself up, resting a hand against her forehead once she's standing. She's still half asleep, and the walk to her bed is so short that she'll be asleep again before she even hits the pillow.

"Goodnight," she mumbles. "Shout if you need - "

"I'll be fine," he says again, and she nods, then heads for the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

He knows he won't sleep now, now that she's in there, laying next to him. For the first time he regrets not taking the bed when he was offered it. Where would nice Tom have slept then? Maybe in his own bloody flat, that's where. But of course, he was never going to take the bed. He's fed up of taking. Despite what he has always believed, it's very unrewarding. The last two years has given him a lot of time to figure things out. He thinks he might be a little bit more bearable these days, friendlier, even, if you'd believe it. He was always so used to having no one, but when he was on the other side of the world, playing a dead man, having nobody to talk to, nobody to keep away the silence, he realised that the once rather favourable idea of spending his life alone was not actually so ideal after all.

He doesn't want that. Not anymore. Not even for a second.

In fact, the very notion terrifies him.

The End.