Molly raced down the crowded hallway, struggling to shrug her large, striped bag back onto her shoulder.

"Sorry," she squeaked as she rounded a corner, barely avoiding an orderly wheeling a gurney.

The persistent ringing of her mobile had woken her from a deep, drug-induced sleep that left her with a raging headache. Hazy from painkillers, she felt tired and fuzzy as she tried to piece together what had happened the night before, but it was Mycroft's dry voice that brought everything back instantly.

"I apologize, Dr. Hooper. I should have given you more warning, but my car is waiting outside your building."

"What?" she gasped, jumping out of bed. "Is something wrong? Is Sherlock worse?"

"No, he is better. That is the problem."

Biting her lip to keep from saying something she might regret, Molly rolled her eyes heavenward. The Holmes brothers certainly had a frustrating flare for the dramatic. "Please just tell me."

"He is going to be fine, the doctors have explained to me. But he is causing a loud disturbance on the ward. No matter how much John reassures him that you are well, he insists on seeing you. Now. I plan to arrive at the hospital in a few hours, but could you—"

Whatever else Mycroft said became static as she grinned happily.

Sherlock is going to be fine.

"I'll throw on some clothes and be down in five."

Picking up her pace, Molly was practically jogging when she heard John's raised voice drifting down the hall.

"Will you lie back down, you bloody git!"

"If it were Mary, you wouldn't be willing to lie around in hospital!" argued Sherlock, supercilious and angry.

Breaking out into a smile, Molly strode into the first room on her left and was surprised to see Sherlock weakly trying to sit up with John holding him in place with just one hand.

"Sherlock Holmes! Stop giving everyone a hard time!" she commanded.

Seeing her in the doorway, Sherlock eased back onto the pillows, relief and affection flooding his ocean-blue eyes.

"At last, Molly Hooper," he said quietly.

John, wearing fresh clothes but still looking disheveled, made sure his best friend's IVs were intact before shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I'm going to get some tea and let Greg know you're making a remarkable recovery," he said brusquely to Sherlock before giving Molly a conspiratorial wink.

After the door slowly clicked shut behind him, Molly dropped her bag and rushed to Sherlock. Without a word, he pulled her down to him, his lips crashing on to hers with an intensity she hadn't felt before.

"You're really all right?" she murmured between his frantic kisses.

He grunted in answer, not pausing to catch his breath before snogging her silly. Finally breaking away, he gently touched her right arm, which was cradled securely in a blue sling. "And you?"

Breathless, she looked at him dubiously. "You can't tell me you don't already know I have a broken ulna."

He clenched his fist until the knuckles went white.

"I will kill Wilson," he seethed.

Molly had seen this possessive fury only a few times before. Calmly she stroked his hand until it gradually relaxed, then she brought it to her lips and kissed it.

"He nearly killed you," she reminded him. "I'd say that's a little more serious."

"But he hurt you. No one hurts you," he said dangerously.

"I'm fine. Don't worry." Molly cupped his cheek tenderly. "How are you feeling today?"

Sherlock stared down at his badly broken leg.

"Very tired. And this undoubtedly will take a while." He sighed like a martyr. "I am not a patient man."

"Yeah, I know. But we'll get through it together. We'll watch crap telly and get curry takeaway and have a grand time of it," she teased, but Sherlock remained pensive.

"I don't remember much of last night. Bits and pieces. I thought you were in danger and I had to find you." He curled his lip in disdain. "Wilson lied."

Drawing back, Molly felt ill with shame. In her haste and the confusion of the morning, she had forgotten why Sherlock had ended up on that muddy hillside.

All your fault.

Whatever painkiller Sherlock was on, it hadn't affected his powers of observation.

"Molly? What is it?"

With a light toss of her head, she gave him a brave face.

"You were so ill. I was very frightened."

"You're a rubbish liar." He studied her intently.

"It's true! I was frightened," she protested.

"There's more. Tell me," he commanded imperiously.

"No, that's it. Really."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Your voice just jumped an octave, a sure sign that you aren't telling the truth."

With tears threatening, Molly knew she couldn't fool him. She focused on smoothing the thin hospital blanket.

"My business card. I left it at Wilson's. It's what he used to fool you, I know . . ." Her trembling voice trailed off.

"So you think that somehow this is your fault?" Sherlock's brow furrowed in disbelief. "You are far too intelligent of a woman to let a misplaced sense of guilt deceive you into believing that. You're letting emotion overrule your logic."

"And that's what you did," she cried, standing up and walking to the door. "Your feelings for me put you in danger. I can't bear that, Sherlock, I really can't."

"Molly, come back."

"No," she sobbed and reached for the door handle.

His rich, baritone voice halted her in her tracks.

"I was cold and I knew I was dying, but your voice was my lifeline. Molly Hooper, you still are my true north and always will be."

"Oh Sherlock." Tears spilling over, Molly turned and slumped back against the door.

"Come here or I'll get up," he threatened.

She knew she couldn't resist him. Molly walked back and lightly sat at the edge of the bed.

"I've had no use for sentiment in my life, but I've come to understand the value of friendship and of our . . . understanding." He paused and then said purposefully, "And I remember."

"What do you remember?" Half hopeful, half fearful, Molly slowly looked him in the eye.

"What I said to you before they took me to surgery. I remember." Sherlock gave her one of his rare, pure smiles that melted away her fears and doubts.

Something that felt like joy welled up in her heart and Molly leaned in to place a tender kiss on his lips.

"Sherlock, I love you, too."

~s~s~s~s~s~

The End

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and followed this story. Sherlock will be facing an intense time of recovery and the boredom it brings trapped in his rooms at Baker Street, all with painkillers at the tip of his fingers. What happens is "a bit not good," as John would say. Follow me to find out in And the Stars Wept into the Night, coming soon!