Molly bolted awake, breathing heavily. Nightmares still plagued her and it seemed unlikely they would let up anytime soon. She checked to see that nobody else was in the room with her, and then buried her head in her hands. No matter what she did to make herself sleepier, nothing ever helped protect her from the night terrors. Her attacker was always there. She rubbed her eyes and settled her breathing before slipping out of bed, throwing on a robe, and making her way to the kitchen.

She had been staying with John and Sherlock for almost a week now. They were good hosts, and Molly was terribly grateful for their company and protectiveness, but she was also keen to get back to her own home.

Shuffling quietly through the hallway and softly opening the cupboard, Molly grabbed a glass and filled it from the tap. It was around 3 in the morning. The only sounds were that of the clock ticking and the faint buzzing sound from the light above the table.

Suddenly, an arm grabbed her around the waist and pinned her to the countertop. Molly's heart sped up.

"Miss me?"

She immediately recognized his taunting voice. It was the rapist.

Molly prepared to scream, but he clapped his hand harshly over her mouth. "Now now, we can't have that." He rubbed his pelvis into her backside. Molly gasped and tried moving away, but he slammed her right back into the counter. "I don't think so." She could feel him becoming hard and she panicked as he laid his front against her back. Her attacker groaned and hungrily grasped her sleep pants in his hands, ripping them. He turned her around and shoved himself between her legs. She cried out and started fighting back against his touches, pushing him away.

Where were John and Sherlock?

Molly's rapist seemed to read her mind. "Ah yes, your protectors." He nuzzled his face against her neck. The intimacy of it made Molly want to vomit. "Want to see what I did to them?" He grabbed Molly by her waist and dragged her to John's room. She screamed and tried to kick out of his grasp, kneeing him right in the groin. This only caused him to become angry and grasp her tighter, forming new bruises. Kicking open John's room door with a snarl, he burst in and flipped on the light.

John was laying face up on his bed, his eyes open and his throat slit, bloodstains dripping into his bed sheets. A glazed faraway look was in his eyes. The good doctor, murdered. She was wordless. She couldn't breathe.

Beside him lay Sherlock. His beautiful blue eyes looked upward. His long throat was surrounded by wet red marks. She couldn't believe it.

She almost screamed. She almost passed out.

Her rapist dropped her on the floor and lay atop her. "You know, for a first-class detective duo, they were easy to kill. They didn't even scream." Once again, he shoved his face into her neck and bit her shoulder, making her bleed.

"Let's make you scream."

"Molly? Molly!" Her eyes snapped open and landed on the very man she thought was dead. Sherlock stared at her with concern plainly written in his face. "You were screaming, I-"

She threw herself into his arms, sobbing. "My god, you're alive." Grasping handfuls of his shirt, she buried her head into his chest. "I had such an awful nightmare." She felt his arms wrap hesitantly around her back and a hand settle behind her head.

"Yes, of course I'm alive, silly girl. Nobody can kill me without my permission." Molly chuckled wetly and sniffled, still upset at her night terror. He shifted them; him sitting on the bed, settling her in his lap.

"It was so real, so real…" Molly chanted breathlessly as Sherlock awkwardly rocked her back and forth. He wasn't really used to human contact, especially with a hysterical woman, but he tried his best.

He stroked her hair and whispered to her softly. "May I ask what happened?" Molly immediately stiffened.

After a while, she spoke. "He attacked me again. And he killed you and John." She doesn't know what made it happen, but all her feelings just spilled out of her. Her emotions and stress had been bottled up for days, and now it was all pouring out of her, like a faucet. "I just don't know what to do anymore. I'm so tired and I keep having these terrible dreams and I just want them to stop. I want to feel safe again, and I don't just mean being protected. I want to feel safe in my own body, like he's not going to suddenly show up in my mind like he always does." Her tears started up again. "Please just make him go away."

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, taking in everything and listening to what Molly had to say. He imagined what was going on in her mind, and here it was in front of him, his worst observations coming to light. Wiping her tears with his hand, he looked straight into her eyes. "I will help you, and I will do whatever it takes to make you better. You're my friend. Please trust me on this."

Molly sniffed and nodded her head. "I do. Trust you, I mean." She laid her head in the crook of his shoulder. "I trust you, Sherlock."

After awhile, Sherlock made to get up. "It's very late. You should try and get some more rest." He settled her into her bed and walked toward the door.

"Wait." Molly called out to him, his hand frozen on the doorknob, glancing back at her.

"Would-would you stay with me tonight? I mean, you don't really have to, but I just want to-"

He stripped off his shoes and socks, pushing them to the wall. Molly looked away bashfully while he unbuttoned his shirt and laid it haphazardly across a chair. Sherlock crawled under the covers and flicked off the lamp.

At first it was quite awkward. Molly lay there stiffly facing the ceiling as did Sherlock. However, as she drifted away, Molly felt the warmth of her detective's hand grasping her fingers, making sure that she knew, even in unconsciousness, that he was with her.