A/N. This is a very very old prompt I got from varjaks in tumblr. Sorry I only got around doing this today. It was supposed to be a one-shot but it got longer and more solid so I think it will come in three parts. Inspired by Rescue Song by Mr. Little Jeans.

Yes, again out of the blue and unbetaed.

My dress is torn, you have a black eye

You got from a giving kind

But your coat is big and I am warm

I'll ask if I can walk you home

Drops of water are pelting on the ground, attacking the dust and dissolving the sediments before trailing off to a path set by gravity. She watched as a pool of murky liquid accumulated around her bare feet, engulfing her toes in its cold and wet embrace. Overhead, the gray sky lights and rumbles its approval as raindrops seep through her dress, making it dark, soppy and sticky. She had taken into counting each trickle that flows down her dress and into the ripped edges of the torn flap which is hanging awkwardly near her exposed thigh.

106…107…108…

She had been counting for too long.

Nearby, Lestrade is shouting commands, making younger officers scramble to their feet to abide the orders. His cropped silver hair glistens with the clear liquid.

John is sitting inside one of the parked ambulances, tucked safely away from the clutches of the rain. His arm is stretched towards a responder who is tending to it with care and efficiency that comes only from years of experience.

Mycroft Holmes is standing near his black car, watching the commotion with attentive eyes and a detached face - his black umbrella finally open and put to use.

The pitter patter muffles the excitement that surrounds her. The shouted orders, the anxious talks the clamor, the rushing and the busyness - all of the sounds reached her ears in an intangible heap of notes.

She can barely hear the commotion that accompanies a crime scene.

Not that she knows how a crime scene really sounds.

At least, not like the living statue standing beside her.

Really, what is the point of dressing impeccably, when he just lets it get soaked?

"Where is your coat?" Now that you need it the most?

Her voice rouses him from stupor and he turns towards her, albeit slowly as she imagines that he's still waking up from whatever hole he had dug in his brain to store the events of this particular evening.

Brown to blue, ocean to the forest.

It still amazes her how his eyes can still take her. Every time, it feels like walking into the open ocean, with her feet carrying her further and further from safety and into the deceptive calmness of the great expanse. She can't blame him though, because she willingly drowns in them. Sometimes she thinks it must be her hidden sadomasochistic streak, letting itself known. But then, in the world of Sherlock Holmes, pain and pleasure mix like chocolate and salt.

It's just a pity her family has a history with diabetes.

She'd always known that he's going to be the death of her.

Or she, his.

Either way, the black and red shades underlining his left eye manifests how their lives are irrevocably intertwined.

He really must be the devil if he can look like that with a black eye.

The black eye did not even lessen the effects of the condescending stare she was rewarded with. She really hates it when he looks at her like she had grown a second head, but then a small irritating voice always quips and says that he always looks at everyone like that. She can consider it a victory that she only receives such a look twice a month at worst. The downside is, she's not used to it like John so she never built enough resistance not to feel hurt.

"You must really be shaken."

His voice shakes her from her thoughts in much the same way that hers did to him. But she doubts that it is because her voice has the same effect to him, as his voice have on her. For a moment she wonders how it is possible for his voice to sound so earthy and heavenly at the same time. She's pretty sure that, had a thunderclap reverberated at the same time that he had spoken, she would still know what he said. It seems that she had developed the uncanny ability to hear him.

See him. Feel him. Basically, everything.

Shame, it does not go both ways.

"What do you mean by that?" She asks as she looks at his chiseled face, with a look that she can only hope is strong enough to show annoyance and not something akin to what someone pulls off in the midst of diarrhea.

Though she suppose, he should be given that look once in a while.

Treat it as her own brand of insult.

Thank goodness he can't really read minds.

The look on his face however, suggested otherwise. Or at least that's how her brain chose to interpret it. She's too caught up with her mini-emotional meltdown, to figure out that contrary to popular belief, he does not always know what the embarrassing thought of a person is about. Sometimes he can only deduce that there is one.

And although he did figure out that she was thinking of something that is better left unsaid, the look in his face is actually brought about by the fact that she does not know where his coat is.

Especially since it is perched in her shoulders.

Any other day, any other person, he would have responded with a scathing remark that would surely make anyone doubt their mental capacity - or his - but not today, not with Molly. Not anymore.

So instead, he moves to stand in front of her and pulls on the heavy coat until she finally looked like a burrito.

Sure, a thousand euros Belstaff burrito, but still a soppy burrito.

Only when Sherlock returned to his original position beside her, after he was finished wrapping her like a Mexican delight, did she realize how close he stood in front of her, or how gentle his hands were as they tugged into the lapels of his coat, or how thoughtful it was of him to actually let her have his coat.

But most of all, only then did she realize how utterly stupid she had been.

How could she have missed the warm heaviness around her shoulders? Or at least, the persistent smell of wood shave and lemon that hung around her?

She really must have been so out of it not to realize something as monumental as his coat wrapped around her.

The perks of being almost killed.

Another police car is pulling into the crime scene, and all though there is honestly no need for it, the loud wails of its siren is really asking for attention. However, hers is directed to only one person.

She watches as red and blue lights dance across his face, making his angles sharper and his shadows darker. She thinks the lighting perfectly reflects who he is - a dichotomy that makes up for both his brilliance and shadiness.

Why must she fall in love with such a man?

Neil from cardiology is earnest. Lestrade is reasonable - and very much single. John is nice and level-headed. Why can't it be them?

Why must it be him?

"I don't know." Came the answer.

Which of course, she was not expecting.

Perhaps death isn't that bad afterall. Should she really be thinking along this line, hours after she almost got killed?

At least it would give her reprieve from the awkward moment born out of asking Sherlock Holmes why she is in love with him. It's not even because of the stupidity of asking the man she fancies why she fancies him. It's like asking an apple why a grape is a grape - utterly foolish and useless. The humiliation is more of due to the fact she had just asked Sherlock Holmes why she is in love with him.

Red ink, bold, italics and double underline on Sherlock Holmes.

Making Sherlock talk about love is like asking someone to describe the color red to a blind man. Frustrating and painful. However in the case of red, it could be described using words like passion, lips and blood - all of which could elicit the same feelings between those who can see and those who can't.

At least red can be felt.

Love is simply a word for Sherlock. It is a simple chemical reaction that can be suppressed and ignored. He is the only one she knows who can turn love into the most unfeeling and cold word.

Oh the irony.

If only the irony would turn into something tangible like actual rust so she can douse it with vinegar. It would definitely save her from the grounding stare directed in her way.

His eyes are really like the ocean, and she thinks it is simply cruel of Fate to leave her wallowing in it with not a single floater or a tiny chance of escape. For now, all she can do is to just accept how far gone she is when it comes to the world's only consulting detective.

No shore in sight for her. No words for her mouth either.

"I also don't know why you hold that feeling for me." His face betrayed no emotion.

She could swear she heard something crack.

As they stood side by side and cocooned from the urgency surrounding them, she feels a strong itch in her hand to smack his arms, because he does not even have the decency to at least throw her a life buoy. He could have at least pretended not to hear anything.

Saves them both time and face.

As she waits for him to elaborate or walk away - whatever he is inclined to do - she entertains the idea that perhaps, it is the adrenalin talking. To his credit, he's an undead who had just killed someone. Maybe it is just bullet talk and she can still weave her way out of it.

"Sherlock, just forge-"

"No. I think it is time we talk about it."

Molly finds it very appropriate that just when she is cold, wet, wrapped in a coat that might as well be made of gold thread and false sense of security, and still suffering from shock of nearly dying - Sherlock Holmes, with his sharpness and incredible timing - decides that it is the perfect moment to discuss feelings.

It is definitely not her day, and if things goes as she imagine they will, it's not her life either.

Grey like the gravel under our shoes

The sky doesn't clarify

Simple is something of a mystery

No longer making sense to me