AN: Thank you for the incredible support! It warms my heart every time I get a new follower or a PM/review asking me to hurry up and post (in the nicest manner possible, of course!). Real life got in the way, so I've been writing this in my few moments of free time. I felt a little like a hypocrite, always asking other writers for faster updates to sate my Sherlolly needs. Well this is my contribution... I hope you enjoy it! :)

As always, I do not own Sherlock... that right belongs to ACD and Mofftiss. However the mistakes are mine!

'italics'= inner monologue; conversations with mind-palace people

The clock in the hospital room continued to tick away the minutes to Molly Hooper's arrival. By Sherlock's estimation, she would be another 30 minutes if she was coming from home, or—and he really hoped it wasn't the case—he could expect her in 10 minutes if she was coming from Bart's. Either way, he didn't have much time.

The idea of another confrontation with Molly was off putting. Of course, there was the possibility that they would talk, clear the air, and all would return to the norm. But he knew himself and whenever he was backed into a corner, he retaliated.

The first time around—before all this… happened—he had felt ill after exchanging harsh words with her. So much in fact, that he allowed himself to be distracted, becoming vulnerable to an attack. How would he handle all this, after acknowledging his new-found feelings?

Suddenly, trying to escape before they returned or possibly bribing the doctor to release him earlier than recommended, both seemed like agreeable options.

'Perhaps I am making this much more complicated than it needs to be… After all, no one knows that my feelings have changed towards Molly. Maybe I don't even feel the same about her in this reality. Of course that's it! I only felt like because of excess adrenaline and firing neurons… It wasn't even this Molly- "pathologist Molly"- that I fell in lov—well that I felt something for. Yes that must be it… "Consulting detective Molly" was much more like me than her usual 'mousey' self.'

Sherlock laid back in bed; the tension that had been tightly coiled inside of him slowly dissipated with the steady stream of breath that left his lips.

A sardonic cackle, that sounded a lot like John, interrupted his deep breathing. "How much of narcissist can you be? You were attracted to the Molly that resembled you! Ha! I've always said you were entirely too enamored with yourself."

Well, shit… there would be no living with "mind-palace John" now.

It wasn't long before he heard the familiar footfalls of his favorite pathologist coming down the hall. He closed his eyes, in a last ditch effort to solidify the idea that he was not in love with Molly Hooper.

"The man doth protest too much, methinks…" mind-palace Mycroft offered smugly.

"Dear lord… SHUT UP!"

Molly scoffed. "Sherlock Holmes, you have the horrible tendency of getting hurt when I'm supposed to be mad at you."

Sherlock opened his eyes only to see the ghost that had been haunting his—well coma, for lack of a better word—standing before him. Despite his attempts to convince himself that he felt nothing for the woman, the flutter in his stomach at the sight of her presence in the doorway told him otherwise.

"Well," he said in a pained breath as he sat up, "it's proved to be the quickest method to get back in your good graces. Did it work?"

Still not having made her way further into the room, Molly huffed. "That's yet to be decided." After a brief hesitation, she stepped in and moved to the chair by his bed. "You know, if you're so keen on remaining in my 'good graces' as you put it, you could try not doing the thing that pisses me off in the first place. Much easier than getting maimed, really."

Sherlock fought the grin on his face. Clearly she was still upset, but she was talking to him… that had to be a good sign, right?

"Easier, yes… but when have you known me to do things the easy way?" This time he didn't fight it; he gave her his most boyish smile in his arsenal.

Molly's shoulders slightly relaxed as she flopped onto the chair. "No, I suppose you don't." Several minutes of comfortable silence passed. It was a common theme in their relationship; no need for conversation, the peace to contemplate a myriad of thoughts, but the comfort of knowing you weren't entirely alone. This phenomenon was unique to Molly. (Lestrade liked to talk aloud, John fidgeted, and Mrs. Hudson took his silence as an invitation to hoover the rugs.)

Sherlock was considering entering his mind palace when a frustrated sigh left Molly's lips. "Really Sherlock, you'll be the death of me one day. It's bad enough that I worry when you're out on a case… and now, walking home isn't safe for you as well. What the hell happened? John didn't elaborate much, only to say that there had been an accident and you were sent to the hospital."

"It sounds like you have the gist of the situation. I was walking home, there was an accident, and here we are… at the hospital." The second the words left his mouth, Sherlock regretted it. Hadn't he decided he would be kinder to Molly? Had this whole experience been for naught? Why was it that everything he said managed to 'piss her off' even more?

The glare he received from Molly was evidence enough that she shared the same sentiment. He cleared he throat and focused on the space right above Molly's head, "Ahem. Sorry… I was walking home and a low-level criminal hired by the wife of a man I testified against ambushed me. He 'snuck up' on me—according to witnesses—and hit the back of my head with some sort of weapon. Consequently, I was incapacitated and brought to the hospital where I've been in and out of consciousness for the past six days."

Feeling confident in his response he returned his gaze to Molly. What he saw shocked him; fear mixed with rage contorted her features, while tears brimmed her eyes.

"Six days," she whispered angrily. "Six days, and I'm just hearing about this now?" She stood up quickly, the chair sliding forcibly across the room. "It's comforting to know that in the amalgam of friends you have collected over time, I don't even warrant some sort of message that something had happened to you."

In his rush to stop her, he sat up far too fast for someone recovering from a head wound should. The situation was rapidly escalating; the moment getting away from him like a vehicle spinning out of control. The panic that engulfed him as she began to collect her things to leave sent him into a tachycardia episode. "Molly, wait—"

The beeping machine that indicated the dangerous increase in his heart-rate pulled Molly's attention back to him. He must have looked a fright because no sooner than she turned, the color drained from her face.

"Lie back, Sherlock. Christ! We need to get a doctor in here!" Before she could move away, he grabbed her wrist.

"You're—a—doctor…" he said haltingly, in between gasps for air.

"Don't joke, Sherlock!" Molly snapped. She made no effort to leave, but her eyes kept darting around the room looking for something to help him.

"Molly, I'm—fine. Look at me, I'll be okay…" Sherlock almost chuckled. Here he was in the midst of a panic attack, and he (of all people) was attempting to console Molly. "Please—just stay," he pleaded.

She looked a little unsure, but remained by his side nonetheless. 'Just like many times before,' he thought.

A few minutes later, his breathing had returned to normal and his heart rate slowed down. He held unwaveringly onto her wrist, finding the rhythm of her pulse soothing. "Surely, you can't blame me for not notifying you. As I mentioned, I was unconscious for the majority of my stay here. Rather difficult to dial your number…"

Molly looked from his hand, that was wrapped around hers, up towards his face. She would eventually forgive him… they both knew that. But the longer they sat there, Sherlock realized that he no longer had the patience to wait for it; to wait for her forgiveness.

'…not doing the thing that pisses me off…' was what she said. Was it really as simple as that? Of course it was! He could be the person that made her happy, instead of angry; ensure that the tears she shed because of him, would only ever be happy tears.

Fierce determination warmed his chest as he figured out what he wanted—or more precisely, who he wanted. Sherlock Holmes would become a man worthy of Molly's love.

The small tug of her hand pulling away from his broke Sherlock from his scheming. Molly returned to her chair and sat back as far as possible; effectively putting some distance between them. It pained him a little, but he would allow it… for now.

He would earn her trust again.

Molly released a resigned laugh, shook her head, and wrapped her arms around her knees. "Oh Sherlock, what am I to do with you?"

He smiled at her and closed his eyes once again, savoring the moment. 'Oh Molly… You'll let me win your heart,' he mused before succumbing to sleep.

AN: Please let me know if there are glaring mistakes. I was determined to post today, and even though I read through it several times, the words started to blur towards the end.

Leave me a review, tell me what you think! (It may prompt to write the next chapter sooner, apparently I am not above manipulation)

Lots of love, my dears :)