YOUR REMEDY

30 October 2017

A/N: A channel here in Canada has been airing old episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Charmed, so I thought I'd write a fic in which Molly is a witch and Toby is her familiar. But she's more like the Charmed Ones (especially Prue and Paige) than Willow here. Hell, she's a bit more like Tara than Willow. I also took several of her powers from the 'Witch' page on The Vampire Diaries Wiki. I also borrowed some ideas from the magical people on Once Upon a Time (specifically from 2x12, "In the Name of the Brother").

Also, nearly a month and a half ago, penaltywaltzsent me a prompt on Tumblr from the Super Sappy Lines Prompt List. She chose prompt #8, which says, "Can I touch you?" I'm not sure if this is sappy enough, but I tried. Sorry for taking so long with this!

I'm not a medical professional, so I relied on the internet for help on treating stab wounds. Please chalk up inaccuracies to the fact that there's magic involved. Y'all will see what I'm talking about soon enough.

I'm also neither a magical witch nor a witch practitioner, so I relied on the wikis for the aforementioned shows, Wikipedia, and websites on witchcraft. I think I created a decent witch for Molly, but I probably got a lot of concepts wrong.

The title is from Remedy by Adele.

The rating is for description of the stabbing, a few swear words, and some suggestive stuff.

Hope y'all like this one!

I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.

Molly tied the sash of her dressing gown tighter as she rushed down the stairs. "Hang on. I'm coming!" she shouted, hoping that her unexpected guest would stop banging on her door or identify themselves.

"It's probably Sherlock," Toby, her cat, calmly said as he sat in the doorway to the drawing room.

She halted her steps and turned to him. "Shush! They might hear you." She glanced at the door. "And Sherlock wouldn't bang on my door like that. He knows everyone else thinks he's dead."

"Unless he's dying," the cat said before licking his front paw.

"Hurry, Dr Hooper!" a female voice called out to her before she could answer.

She ran to the door and nearly took it off its hinges as she pulled it open. "Anthea, what––" she began before her eyes landed on Sherlock, who was unconscious and was only upright because his brother and Mycroft's personal assistant were propping him up. She noted that his black leather jacket was open and that Anthea was holding his abdomen. With her heart thumping hard with fear and worry for Sherlock, she stepped back and let them in. "Is he breathing? How's his pulse?" Running to the kitchen, she took a large first aid kit out of a cabinet.

Anthea helped her boss gently deposit Sherlock onto the brown leather sofa in the lounge before taking off her navy peacoat. "Yes, he's breathing. Um, his pulse was a bit fast when I checked it soon after the attack. He, uh, passed out a few seconds later."

She knelt beside Sherlock and placed the first aid kit next to her. "Attack? What kind of attack?" she asked as she swiftly checked his airway, his breathing, and his pulse. "No change then," she muttered.

"He was following one of Moriarty's most dangerous lieutenants when Sebastian Moran just showed up out of nowhere and stabbed Sherlock in the abdomen," Anthea explained as she placed her folded peacoat under his head.

"Sebastian Moran?" Racking her brain for when she heard or saw that name, she pulled on nitrile gloves before carefully cutting through his blood-soaked white T-shirt. She worried her bottom lip as she examined the wound and the bleeding around it. Looks like he didn't hit an artery, she determined, releasing a relieved sigh. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped when she finally remembered. She raised her head and turned to Mycroft, who was standing in front of the tan settee. "Seb? Jim's flatmate?" She turned back to Sherlock's wound, wondering how the hell she would check if the knife pierced his intestines without the proper equipment.

"Yes, Dr Hooper. Colonel Moran was Moriarty's most trusted and most dangerous lieutenant as well as rumoured lover," Mycroft calmly replied, although Molly wondered if she misheard the slight tremble in his voice. "I did not expect him to be in London tonight. I…" He cleared his throat. "Moran was supposed to be in Manhattan for a few days. How the devil did he get out of New York without our knowledge?"

"Sir, Agents Kruger and Weller were absolutely sure that they had eyes on Moran. They were tailing him in Times Square a second before he disappeared."

Mycroft hummed in thought. "It is also strange that he used a knife, since he's an expert marksman and he could have shot Sherlock from a nearby rooftop or window."

"Well, you did say he might have been Moriarty's lover, right?" She turned away from the sterile gauze that she was using to stop the bleeding and looked at Mycroft, who had sat down on the settee with his elbows resting on his thighs and his blood-stained monogrammed handkerchief clutched in his fist. She glanced at the blood stains on his expensive grey three-piece suit and wondered how he missed the fact that Moran was tracking Sherlock as well. "It looks like Seb––whoops, sorry, Moran––somehow found out that Sherlock was back in London and somehow tricked the entire British intelligence into believing that he was in New York when, in fact, he's in town."

Mycroft exhaled and his hands flexed in irritation, but he said nothing.

"A knife is ideal for close-contact attacks, so this is personal. It could be some kind of revenge for Moriarty's death. It might even be jealousy, considering how obsessed Moriarty was with Sherlock." She glanced at both Mycroft and Anthea. "So who gave you bad intel?"

Anthea gingerly sat on the armrest and glanced at Sherlock's pale face before turning to her. "Dr Hooper, he literally came out of nowhere. One moment, Sherlock was keeping an eye on Wolfe while we were trying to get him away from your neighbourhood. Then––poof!––Moran was literally in front of Sherlock and stabbing him! It's like––"

"It's as if he teleported to where Sherlock was to attack him." Mycroft's slightly dazed look disappeared and was replaced by a sharp and piercing gaze––his deducing-the-hell-out-of-everything look, she guessed. However, he said nothing else. He just sat back on the settee and shut his eyes.

She applied more pressure on the wound, hoping that it would stop bleeding soon. "I presume Moran took his knife back with him? Did anyone at least see what it looked like?"

"It happened so fast, but I had the security footage sent to my phone," Anthea said while removing her mobile phone from the pocket of her suit jacket. She tapped the display several times before she tilted the screen towards Molly.

She watched Sherlock exit a dark alley, his eyes locked on a blond man strolling on the other side of the street. His hair was hidden under a plain black beanie hat, and he wore a black hooded leather jacket over his white T-shirt, a pair of black jeans, and a pair of Vans trainers. Pulling on the hood, he crossed the street and walked towards another dark alley. Just before he reached his destination, however, Moran popped out of nowhere and thrust a double-edged dagger with a black cross guard into Sherlock's abdomen. The shock, confusion, and pain on his face as he realised what happened made her wince and her heart ache. She could see the end of the dagger's black handle, but she could not see if there were writings or markings on the handle. Athame, she thought. Probably.

"Could you please rewind it a bit? Pause the video… right there," she said when the clip stopped at the moment before the knife entered Sherlock's body. "Could you zoom in please?" She squinted at the writing along the blade. She pulled back and looked at Anthea. "I can't quite make out what they say, but I think there are runes on the blade. I think the dagger also glowed just before he plunged it into Sherlock's abdomen. He also might have said something to Sherlock, but the angle isn't ideal for reading lips, so I can't tell you what he said."

"Dr Hooper, are you saying that the knife was somehow––"

"Enchanted?" Anthea's eyes widened as she finished Mycroft's question.

"I don't know." She looked down at Sherlock's wound. "But it must be why this bloody wound would not stop bleeding!" Cursing under her breath, she glanced at the open first aid kit and darted her eyes between the two. "I'm going to need more gauze."

Glancing at her frozen boss, Anthea rose from the armrest and, after putting on a pair of nitrile gloves, rushed to hand Molly more sterile gauze.

"You might need to use your more… rather, non-medical skills to heal my brother, Dr Hooper," Mycroft spoke in a quiet but steady voice from her settee.

She glanced at him, her eyes widening at the look in his eyes and at the way he tilted his head. He cannot possibly know, she thought as she stared at him.

"Of course I know. My brother doesn't, however, since I withheld it from your files. I doubt he could deduce your secret, but he most likely does not know. But I know." The way he said the last sentence sent a shiver of fear down her spine and quickened her heart rate.

"You really went that far down my ancestry, eh, Mycroft?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, prompting her to roll her eyes. "Did Sherlock tell you that you could call me by my given name?"

She giggled. "Actually, yes. Before he left for Sicily, he told me never to call you 'Mr Holmes' anymore. It's 'Mycroft' from then on."

He sighed. "Very well. Fear not, Dr Hooper. If my brother survives this and he somehow finds out your secret, he will not get it from me."

She nodded in thanks. She then turned to Anthea. "Do you know?"

She gave Molly a small smile. "Of course. You can trust me, Dr Hooper."

She smiled back at her. "Molly, please. If you know about that, then you may call me Molly."

Anthea glanced down at Sherlock's face and knitted her eyebrows. She also removed the nitrile glove from one hand and touched his forehead. "His skin is cold and clammy, sir, Doctor. I think he's also one or two shades paler." She took his wrist and felt for his pulse. "His heart rate is elevated." She watched his chest move. "Yeah, his breathing is rapid too."

"It must be the shock," Molly concluded, just as Mycroft said something identical. She turned to him. "I can keep him warm and comfortable here, but I don't have the necessary tools and equipment to properly look at his stab wound. He probably has internal bleeding, and the dagger might have punctured his intestines. He needs to be treated in the hospital or at least a clinic. There's one several minutes away." She looked down at the blood-soaked pile of gauze beneath her hands. "And the blood isn't clotting," she added, her voice breaking in worry.

She heard the creak of the settee, and she turned to see Mycroft leaning forward and giving her a forceful look. "Dr Hooper," he began in a firm voice, "it is imperative that my brother lives through the night. He needs to finish dismantling James Moriarty's network."

So he can come home for good, she added what he could not say in her mind.

"I don't care how you save him. Just make sure that he lives. Do you hear me, Dr Hooper?"

She shot him a reluctant look. "Yes, Mr Holmes, I think I know what you need me to do," she replied. "But are you absolutely sure that you want me to do this?"

"Yes, I am certain. You must use every tool at your disposal to heal my brother, Dr Hooper," he stressed. "Save him."

She glanced at Anthea, who gave her an encouraging nod. She then shut her eyes and took a shallow breath. She opened her eyes, feeling the power surge within her. "OK then," she said before she pushed all the blood-stained gauze aside until the wound was visible. They're not working anyway. She pulled the gloves off her hands and threw them onto the floor. Her hands hovered over the wound as her heart thumped wildly in her chest. Either Moran had the dagger imbued with evil magic or he himself is an evil warlock. If I don't undo what he's done, Sherlock will die. Shutting her eyes again, she took a deep breath and went to work.

She visualised Sherlock as he lay unconscious and bleeding from his stab wound. Anger rose in her heart, but she swiftly squashed it. That's for later, especially if—or, more likely, when—Sebastian Moran comes for Sherlock. Or me.

Instead, she recalled the small moments that Sherlock showed her that he cared. All the times that he praised her intelligence and work ethic, though it usually took her a while to decode his backhanded compliments. The few times that he bought her Quavers from the vending machine or, once, Nutella duffins from Bea's when he asked her to work through her lunch or dinner break to help him out. All the times that the two of them worked nearly flawlessly in companionable silence. All the times that he praised her published works, which almost always led to an exciting discussion on science and medicine, and helped her out with the papers she was writing. The couple of times that he covered her with her coat when she nodded off during certain double shifts.

That time when she bumped into John on her way to her dentist's office and he told her that Sherlock was trying to be kind when he told her to break it off with Jim. That night that Sherlock went to her flat for the first time, shortly after Moriarty tried to blow them up. That one time that he apologised to her, wished her a merry Christmas, and kissed her cheek. That one time that he rang her in the middle of the night, only to utter her name once before hanging up. That night that he asked for her help in faking his death. And the night that he spent thanking her for her help.

Heat travelled from her chest to her arms and to her hands. Opening her eyes, she watched her entire hands glow with mauve light. She heard Anthea's gasp, but she resisted the instinct to glance at her, focusing instead on Sherlock's wound. She lowered her hands a little bit and let her power––fuelled by her love for Sherlock––flow from her hands to his wound. She pictured the light encircling his abdomen, and it immediately obeyed her will. Fix the internal damage to his abdomen and stop the bleeding.

"Oh, my God. It's working!" Anthea exclaimed, prompting her to open her eyes.

Molly let out a short laugh when she saw the blood vanishing as if he never bled at all. She then pointed at the opening of the wound. As she slowly raised her hand, wisps of dark grey smoke came out. She rotated her finger until a few wisps of lavender smoke emerged from the wound, which then closed up to form a tiny scar.

Satisfied that the stab wound was finally healed, she moved a hand towards his head and the other towards his feet. More power surged within her, and it flowed to her hands and then encircled his body as her hands moved. Soon, his entire body was enveloped in mauve light.

Exhaustion began to set in, but she fought her mother's voice in her head that warned her that she was nearing her limit. She shook her head as she ignored her Gran's voice, which told her to ease up. "No!" she answered, despite only hearing the voices in her head. "I have to… I have to heal him!"

She could dimly hear Anthea asking Mycroft if she should dial 999, and she wanted to reply that it was unnecessary. But her strength was failing her and she needed to ensure that Sherlock was completely healed. So she kept silent and focused on Sherlock.

She looked at his face and smiled when she saw that his usual colour had returned. She watched his chest move, her grin widening as his breathing slowed down to a regular rhythm. She glanced at Anthea, who was staring at her, and nodded at his wrist. "Don't worry; it's not radioactive," she reassured her in a soft, tired voice.

Anthea pressed her fingers to his pulse point and then grinned at her. "His skin has warmed up and isn't clammy anymore. And his heart rate is regulating."

She turned to Mycroft and beamed at him. "Sherlock is going to be OK!"

And then everything went black.

"Get off her, Toby. Let her rest."

Is that Anthea? Molly asked herself upon waking. And why do I feel so weary?

"But His Royal Highness is asking for her!"

Why is Toby speaking to Anthea? He's not supposed to talk to anyone but me!

"Sherlock's going to have to wait until she's fully rested. He may not be dying of his stab wound anymore, but his saviour is still recovering. Now, come with me if you want your dinner."

Anthea's words triggered last night's events to replay in her mind. Sherlock stabbed by Sebastian Moran, who was actually Moriarty's lieutenant. Stabbed with a dagger imbued with evil magic, most likely a killing spell. Mycroft and Anthea know my secret. Mycroft practically begging me to heal Sherlock with my magic. Passed out after he was completely healed.

The first thing she saw upon opening her eyes was Toby intently staring at her as he sat on the duvet that covered her chest. He grinned at her once her eyes met his. "Rise and shine!" He turned to his left. "Miss Anthea, she's awake!"

She followed the direction of his eyes and saw Anthea standing next to her bed.

She gave her a relieved smile. "How are you feeling, Molly?"

She took a moment to evaluate the state of her body and mind. "I feel like waking up after I ran non-stop for 374 miles." She slowly and carefully sat up, with Anthea's strong hands supporting her back and her arm.

Her movement dislodged her familiar from her chest and forced him to stand on her thighs. "Hungry? His Majesty had his minions get so much food from His Royal Highness's favourite restaurant. And Miss Anthea baked fairy cakes!"

She scratched behind Toby's ear and smiled. "You know what? I'm actually famished." She turned back to Anthea. "How's Sherlock feeling? Who carried me to my bedroom? What time is it?" Her eyes widened and she let out a horrified gasp. "Shit! I missed work! Did Stamf—"

Anthea softly giggled and raised her hands, effectively cutting her off. "First, besides some understandable fatigue, Sherlock is fine. There seems to be no side effects from the use of magic or complications from the injury itself. In fact, he's feeling so great that he has already irritated Mr Holmes several times today." Her phone chirped, and she glanced at it before giving her an apologetic smile. "Mr Holmes insisted on carrying you to your bed. But he let me remove your dressing gown and tuck you in." She glanced at her wristwatch. "It's, uh, nearly 8pm, so you were asleep for 16 hours. And don't worry about work; Mr Holmes spoke to Dr Stamford himself and he informed your employer that you're taking a few sick days."

"Thank you, Anthea."

She grinned at her. "Are you strong enough to stand and walk downstairs for a late-ish dinner? Or shall I bring some food up here?"

"I-I think I can walk. But I might need some assistance," she replied, gently pushing her cat off her thighs so she could fling the duvet back and swing her legs to the side of her bed. She sent Anthea a grateful smile when she took hold of her elbow and gently pulled her to her feet. "Did you get some rest too?"

"Oh, yes. I slept for a few hours in the bedroom by the communal bathroom. I hope you don't mind."

"Oh, no, not at all. And Mycroft?"

"Sherlock was too spent to come upstairs, so Mr Holmes stayed with his brother downstairs for an hour or so." She cleared her throat and her cheeks turned pink. "Once he was sure that Sherlock was actually sleeping, he went up to the bedroom."

"Which bedroom?"

Anthea only smiled at her.

She shot Toby an incredulous look and got a couple of arch nods in return. Her and Mycroft? Huh. "So, uh, when did Toby start talking to you?"

"Right after you fainted. Mr. Holmes and I were extremely worried about you, but Toby assured us that you should be fine after at least several hours' rest. That's happened before apparently; the last time you exhausted your magic, you slept for half the day. So he told us to get you to your bed. To be honest, though, he gave me a hell of a fright."

She shook her head at Toby, who only sent her his usual unrepentant look. "Sorry about that. He doesn't give a damn about proper manners, that cat."

"Oh, no worries. Once I ascertained that he wasn't a threat to any of us, I stood down. Then he started calling me 'Miss Anthea,' and now we're friends. I think he has a crush on me!" she teased.

"Why must you two talk about me as if I'm not here?" complained Toby, who was following them down the stairs.

She and Anthea exchanged a good-natured eye-roll and a brief giggle. Then she remembered something, which sobered her mood. "Does, uh, Sherlock know who I am? Did you tell him what I did?"

"Mr Holmes told him what happened and that you healed him. He didn't mention the bit about the dagger being imbued with evil magic. He did drop clues regarding exactly how you did it, but Sherlock is preoccupied with figuring out how Colonel Moran got to London so quickly. So Mr Holmes thought that perhaps you could tell him yourself. But only if you want to, of course."

She bit her bottom lip as she considered her options. "He's not going to believe me."

"Mr Holmes and I will back you up." She glanced back at Toby. "He's also heard your cat talk, although Sherlock dismissed it as an agent of ours."

"B-but he might want a display of my powers, and I'm not sure I'm strong enough to do it yet. Yes, I've exhausted my magic before, but I didn't push the limits of my powers like I did last night. So I have no idea if 16 hours of sleep is enough to replenish my magical strength."

"You might not need to do that. The scar that's left of his stab wound and the fact that he's still alive should be enough proof."

She nodded in agreement. "He'll be asking endless questions for science, and I'd probably overshare," she speculated with a small smile on her face. "With my luck, he'll demand that I use my magic for his every affliction."

"He'll likely do both. Toby says you can teleport, so if you tell Sherlock that, then he'll be asking for you the next time––and every time––he's injured." She smirked at her.

"Well, I'm not using magic every time! And I'm not telling him that I can teleport then."

"You'll take pity on him and use your magic anyway," Toby remarked in a disapproving tone as he ran past them.

"Shut up, Toby!" she responded amidst Anthea's laugh.

"Look who's awake and mistreating me already!" Toby announced as he stepped off the bottom stair.

Mycroft appeared from the direction of the lounge and extended a hand. "Ah, Dr Hooper. I'm… relieved to see you're awake and strong enough to walk." He gave her a tiny smile.

"Oh, thank you, Mycroft." She was delighted to hear no complaints or see no eye-rolls at the name. She took his hand and grinned at him as he guided her to her surprisingly spotless sitting room. He must have had his minions clean up the mess from last night. "Did you leave me any fairy cakes?"

He gave a brief dignified nod despite his cheeks flushing slightly. "Of course. My brother insisted that I left you four," he replied with a glance towards the brown sofa.

She looked round the room and caught a glimpse of Anthea opening the refrigerator and Toby following his new crush. An old episode of Murdoch Mysteries was paused on the television and her laptop was open and resting on a cushion on the sofa. A fluffy blanket lay under the cushion and a pillow was propped against the armrest. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He insisted on going to the water closet himself. He should be back any second now."

As if on cue, she heard shuffling from the hall. She, as well as Mycroft, turned to look at the doorway, where Sherlock was standing.

He had changed into a black Doctor Strange T-shirt (which was left by an ex-boyfriend years ago) and a pair of light blue pyjama bottoms with grey pinstripes, all underneath the royal blue dressing gown that he insisted on leaving in her flat after he jumped off the roof. He also wore a pair of Chewbacca slippers that he had said he hated. His hair was dyed auburn and was more ruffled than usual, which she rather liked. His eyes were clear and penetrating, which she was glad to see. Considering how he almost died 16 hours ago, he looked so damn good.

"Any problems going to the loo?" she asked, prompting him to knit his eyebrows in confusion.

"I believe she's asking as a doctor, brother mine."

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Why else would I ask that?" she asked as she gently shook off Mycroft's hand on her elbow and slowly shuffled towards the tan settee. She took the taupe chenille throw draped over the back of the settee and wrapped herself in it before carefully lowering herself to one end, which happened to be closest to his spot on the sofa. She turned to Sherlock, who was still standing in the doorway.

He finally moved when Mycroft tapped him on the shoulder and gestured towards the sofa. He sat back down on the brown sofa just as Anthea was placing a tray of tea and fairy cakes on the coffee table.

"Are you OK, Molly?" he asked.

She smirked. "I asked you first," she retorted as she accepted the cup of tea that Anthea poured.

He pulled his long legs under him. "No pain when I urinated and no blood in my urine. Same with my bowel movement. Overall, despite some physical and mental exhaustion, I'm fine." He nodded at Anthea when she handed him his own cuppa.

The smirk turned into a happy grin. "Good. That's good to hear." She took a sip of her tea, which instantly invigorated her. "For a minute there, I wasn't sure you were gonna survive the night."

"I was told that you saved my life. Again." He held her gaze and gave her an earnest nod. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

His appreciation warmed her heart and seemed to give her more strength. "No worries, Sherlock. I wasn't gonna let you die six months after we made sure you survived the fall from Barts rooftop."

Mycroft set another tray, this time with four bowls of Angelo's best chicken fettuccine Alfredo, next to the tea tray. He handed one bowl to her and another to Sherlock. Then he moved his and Anthea's cups of tea to the new tray. He turned to Anthea. "Come along to the drawing room, Ms McLaren. We've got work to do."

Anthea nodded at him and rose from the settee. She turned to Molly. "Give us a shout if you two need anything," she said before following Mycroft.

"I'm not entirely sure that we are the ones that need privacy," Sherlock said in a low voice as he began eating.

"Oh, leave them be," she replied with a brief giggle. "They probably just want to enjoy the last few hours before they have to hide their 'special relationship' from Her Majesty again."

He laughed. "Oh, she knows."

She rolled her eyes. "All right. The rest of the British government and British intelligence then."

"Most of them don't care," he replied. He set his half-finished bowl on the coffee table and wiped his mouth with a napkin from the tea tray. "You didn't answer my question. Are you OK?"

She stared at him mid-bite. Chewing, she nodded and placed the bowl on the side table. "Yeah, of course I am. Saving your life just took so much out of me, is all. I just needed sleep and food," she concluded with a shrug.

"Your medical skills don't require expending so much energy that you'd sleep for 16 hours and wake up famished," he remarked, nodding towards her nearly empty bowl. He intently stared at her, making her heart race, when she said nothing. "You didn't exactly use your medical skills to save my life, did you?"

She stared at him with her jaw on the floor. "Wh-what? Of course I did! I-I did everything that a first responder is required to do. Well, besides call 999 or rush you to A&E, since you're supposed to be dead," she amended. "I mean, yeah, you dyed your hair auburn, but you didn't even bother to change the style. And wearing a beanie hat just enhances your cheekbones, so it's no use. Your face is also still plastered all over town, after your fans launched an 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' campaign. So, yeah, you're still recognisable."

He frowned in bemusement, but he quickly shook it off. "Come on, Molly. Mycroft said that I was dying! I know you're a skilled doctor and an excellent pathologist, but you couldn't have saved my life using those skills alone. You have no equipment to check if the knife pierced my intestines. You couldn't have stopped the internal bleeding and prevent peritonitis with only your first aid kit." He pulled up the hem of his T-shirt until his scar was visible. "And it's a tad too early for a stab wound to have a scar like this." He released the hem and turned to her. "Both Mycroft and Anthea have already assured me that no one else was here last night." He paused and narrowed his eyes at her. "Unless, of course, something as silly as magic was involved." He scoffed and raised an eyebrow. "You're not a witch, are you?"

Although she expected this from him, his mocking tone and disbelieving gaze still hurt her a little. How could she tell him who she was when he considered the power––her power––that healed him to be 'silly'? But what if he actually believes me? she wondered. "Well…" she began, drawing out the vowel as she tried to decide whether she would go for the truth or not.

He furrowed his brows as he continued to stare at her, no doubt deducing her. Then he shut his eyes and rested his chin on the tips of his steepled fingers.

Seriously? He goes into his Mind Palace in the middle of a conversation? She rolled her eyes and picked up her bowl. Knowing that he could be in there for a while, Molly resumed her late dinner and browsed her recordings. She settled on the new episode of Once Upon a Time and pressed 'play'.

Once the episode was over, she gathered the bowls and mugs onto the tea tray and washed up in the kitchen. She then checked on Mycroft and Anthea, who were working in the drawing room, and decided that they both needed fresh cups of tea. She reassured Anthea that she was fine when she carried the steaming teapot to the drawing room.

Toby was sitting on the other end of the settee when she refilled her and Sherlock's cups. "May I have his fairy cake?" he asked, staring at the plate.

"No, you may not," she replied as she sat down. "I don't even think you can digest fairy cakes."

"I can handle it. I've eaten a bunch before."

Of course. She shook her head. "Not tonight, Tobes. You didn't have a dagger that was likely infused with a killing spell stuck in your gut, and you didn't exhaust your magic to save the man you love."

He sniffed in indignation. "Why do you always put His Royal Highness over me? He doesn't even love you like I do!"

She rolled her eyes before scratching behind his ear amidst his half-hearted protests. "But you don't even love me," she pointed out.

"Of course I do! I've been on this godforsaken planet for over a thousand years, and you're the kindest and most powerful witch that I've ever served. I bet you'd beat the evil warlock that wanted to kill His Royal Highness if that fucker ever tried to attack you."

Biting a piece of her fairy cake, she gently shook her head. "God, I hope not. Especially not tonight. I think I need another day or two to fully recover. Remember how it took practically all my magic to undo the damage to Sherlock's body? If I'm ever gonna beat Sebastian Moran, then I'm gonna need my powers in full strength. Who knows if he's already on his way here?"

Toby shook his head. "No, he won't be here tonight. But he will come back once he realises that His Royal Highness is still breathing. You might need your coven's help, as well as Martha's."

She exhaled before nodding in acknowledgement. "OK. Remind me to text my mum before I go to bed."

He glared at her. "I'm not your damn phone. Go set a reminder or something!"

"But you're more effective than any other reminder app, Tobes," she said in her sweetest voice.

"Damn right I am." He stood and leapt off the settee. "His Royal Highness is back to reality, by the way," he said before sauntering away.

She turned to Sherlock, whose eyes were focused on the empty space next to her. "You OK?"

He finally snapped out of it and slid his gaze towards her. "Your cat can talk!" His eyes widened. "You are a witch!"

"Y-yes, I am," she replied, swallowing hard. Holy shit, here we go.

He dropped his hands to his lap and exhaled. "That's why my damn brother has been saying the strangest things." He turned back to her. "You are a magical witch." It was not a question.

"Yeah. The latest in a long line of magical witches. Well, my sister is also one, but she hardly ever practises. Anyway, I was born with magic, and so were my sister, mum, Gran, and so on and so forth. I'm pretty damn sure that my little niece and nephew are magical too."

"So it's passed down through your maternal bloodline," he said with a nod. "Does that mean you don't use potions and amulets and the like?"

"I do use them. They, uh, amplify my magic. They're with my grimoire somewhere in this house." She glared at Sherlock. "You will not look for any of them, OK? You will not touch my grimoire, potions, and other paraphernalia, let alone use them for science or your cases or your mission. Are we clear, William Sherlock Scott Holmes?"

He stared at her and swallowed hard before nodding his head. "Got it. What else can you do? I mean, can you levitate something? Can you teleport?"

"I can do lots of things," she replied with a wide grin. "For instance…" She raised her index finger and twirled it around until her finger glowed with mauve light. Then she pointed it at the open laptop and the light extended towards the computer. She motioned as if to close the lid and the actual laptop snapped shut, to Sherlock's mild astonishment. Then she pointed her finger at his now-cold cup of tea and twirled it around until the beverage heated up. She motioned as if to pull her finger out of the cup and back towards her, and the mauve light vanished. "A lot of times, I can do it without the light." She giggled. "I guess I was kind of showing off."

"It's also an excellent visual aid." He gave her a smile, one of his rare genuine ones. "And your cat is a demon in the form of a feline?"

She shook her head. "No, he's not exactly a demon. He's not a fairy either. He's more of a spirit companion for witches in my coven. He's just grumpier and more sarcastic than most familiars, and that's saying something." She stuck her tongue out at Toby, who swore at her from his perch on the breakfast bar.

He leant towards her. "Do you use a wand too?"

She giggled. "It's not really necessary when I can channel my magic through my hands, amongst other parts of my body. Also, this isn't Harry Potter," she pointed out.

"Well, obviously. Those are fictional sorcerers," he said, surprising her with his knowledge of the book series's existence. "Do you use your magic at work or elsewhere?"

"Occasionally," she reluctantly admitted. "It just comes in handy sometimes. Of course I only use my magic when I'm alone. Thank goodness my kind of witch doesn't have rules against using powers for personal gains or something. I mean, as long as I do it without being seen by muggles, with certain exceptions, and I don't use my powers to commit evil acts towards innocent people, I'm good." She knitted her eyebrows together. "Why aren't you more surprised at or more dismissive of my witchy powers? And how do you know so much about witches?"

"I once had a Wiccan client, whose grimoire was stolen by a romantic rival, and she told me so much about rituals and spells. I also did a bit of research." He shrugged. "I guess I neglected to delete the information. Oh, well."

"But you called magic 'silly' earlier. How are you so chill about it now?"

"Because I retrieved the memory of my stabbing from my Mind Palace. And I remember that Moran literally came out of nowhere. Then Mycroft started reminiscing about that Wiccan girl that he was pining after in Year 9, which I thought was so strange, especially since he swore that he wasn't interested in that girl. I'm also still alive, with only a tiny scar despite never being brought to the hospital or a clinic. Again, thank you for that," he said with a soft smile on his face.

She beamed at him. "You're welcome. I would never let you die before you're old and doddery."

"So I'll be immortal then?" he retorted with a smirk. "Then I heard you and your cat talking about the dagger just as I was emerging from my Mind Palace. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Therefore, you, Molly Hooper, are a witch."

"And, what, you're just cool with that little fact?"

He shrugged again. "Well, why not? For the past six months, I've realised how invaluable you are as a… an ally and a colleague. Your being a magical witch just makes you even more important. So the next time I get injured, I can just have Mycroft fly you to wherever I am so you can heal me."

"Sherlock! I can't be at your beck and call every bloody time you're injured!"

"Fine!" he conceded with an eye-roll. "Only when I'm seriously or fatally injured then?"

She could not help but laugh. "Call me when you're actively dying. And I mean literally dying, Sherlock. I won't come until then."

He groaned in frustration. "Deal." But he smirked, so she knew that he was only testing how far he could go. "As I was saying, I am OK with the fact that you're a witch, because you saved me. Because of you, Molly Hooper, and your magic, I'm still alive. I can walk out of here tomorrow and continue my mission to destroy Moriarty's web. I owe my life to you, Molly!" He chuckled. "I know that sounded so sentimental coming from me. But it's true."

Her heart warmed at his words. His friendship with John has really improved his willingness to show his heart. Strangely enough, she felt her magic also getting stronger. "Well, you're my friend. I'll do anything to keep you alive and finish your mission. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, your parents––hell, even your brother––need you to come home for good. Plus Mycroft didn't give me much choice. He stressed that it was imperative that you live." She shrugged and gave a brief laugh.

He rolled his eyes and glanced at the direction of the drawing room. "What a drama queen." He met her gaze and raised his eyebrow. "What about you? Don't you need me to come home for good?"

"Of course I do! But I know you're alive and hunting the members of Moriarty's network all over the world. John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade don't."

He stared at her and said nothing. At length, he extended his hand towards her, but he pulled it back just as quickly. "Can I touch you? I mean, right after you use your powers?"

She smiled sweetly at him. "Of course you can. I'm not radioactive!"

"Hey, it's a legitimate concern. I don't fancy dying of cancer before I finish my mission."

She shook her head and laughed in amusement. "And you say your brother is a drama queen…"

He rose from the sofa and moved to sit next to her. He tentatively reached for her hand and squeezed. "You do remember what I told you when I asked for your help in faking my suicide, don't you?"

She gave him a tender smile. "Yeah, yeah. I've always counted and you've always trusted me. But just because I'm putting your grieving friends before me doesn't mean I've forgotten that." She wanted to touch his cheeks and snog the hell out of him, but she settled for squeezing his hand instead. "It's just… I just had tea with Mrs Hudson a couple of days ago, and she spent most of it crying and railing about you."

He frowned. "She does that a lot apparently."

"And I bumped into John when he was having lunch with Dr Stamford, and he looked like shit. He's still depressed and angry, and he asked to review your autopsy report. I didn't have the heart to tell him that it's with Mycroft. And it hurt so much to tell him that you're dead and that you're never coming back."

He said nothing. But the pain and sadness in his eyes did not escape her.

"And Lestrade might still be on desk duty for another three to six months. He's hurting too. I've even caught him smoking a few times. Clearly, he misses you."

He sighed. "I know. I-I wish they didn't have to go through this… this pain. I want to complete this mission and come home to them as well. And I'm working hard to finish this. But don't think I'm only doing it for them." To her surprise, he gently cupped the side of her neck and leant to kiss her on the cheek, brushing the corner of her mouth as he did so. "I'm doing this for you too." He pulled back a little, but he was still pretty close.

"Have you or Mycroft estimated how much longer you'll be away?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Twelve to 18 months. I do have a feeling that you might be part of the last stage…"

"Because you might need me to help defeat Sebastian Moran, since I'm a witch and he might be an evil warlock or at least knows someone who's an evil warlock," she finished his sentence for him.

He grinned. "Exactly."

She slipped her arms round his shoulders and pulled him close until their foreheads touched. "Hey, you wanna take a bath together?" she asked after a couple minutes of silence between them. "At least for old times' sake?"

He chuckled. "Absolutely." He pulled away a bit and furrowed his brows. "Y-you're talking about sex, right?"

She laughed out loud. "Well, I'm talking about an actual bath too. It's been nearly 24 hours since I showered. I feel filthy."

Smirking, he rose from the settee and gathered the tea tray. "All right. I'm just going to put this in the sink. We'll deal with this in the morning."

"Which means I will deal with that, because you and Mycroft and Anthea would likely be gone when I wake up tomorrow," she replied as she stood up.

He tilted his head in thought. "Well… in that case, I'll try to make the rest of the night unforgettable."

She raised an eyebrow. "Just try?"

"Molly, I was just stabbed!" he protested, his eyes widening in mock shock.

"You're completely fine! You're just being a drama queen," she said with a cheeky smile. "We don't have to have sex, you know."

"I know. But I've been thinking about our night together before I left for Sicily. I, uh, think I want to recreate it." He smirked at her before carrying the tray to the sink.

Blushing, she walked out to the hall and checked on Mycroft and Anthea. She smiled to herself when she saw her wrapped in his arms as they slept on the sofa. Then she leant against the bottom newel and waited for Sherlock.

He gave her a sensual smile when he emerged from the kitchen a few moments later. "Shall we take a bath together, my little witch?" he asked in a sexy voice, waggling his eyebrows.

She held out her hand, beaming when he took it. "I'm gonna need to perform a silencing spell if you're still a screamer." Then, giggling, she ran up the stairs and led a laughing Sherlock towards the bathroom.

The layout of the house they used for Molly's flat from the PDF provided in the removed listing says there's a drawing room and a kitchen/breakfast room. I chose the lounge (i.e. the one with the large TV and the leather sofas) even if the drawing room is closer, because I feel like Molly would want to keep the drawing room immaculate for other guests or for the three at any other time, because it's easier for them since the first aid kit is in the kitchen, and because it's less exposed compared to the drawing room.

I took all the medical info from wikiHow and Avivadotcodotuk, in case y'all are wondering.

I don't know why, but I really love exploring the idea that something physical (e.g. kissing, cuddling, sex, etc.) happened between Sherlock and Molly after the 'You do count' scene in TRF. *shrugs and winks*

So what do you think? Hate it? Like it? Love it?