I opened a prompt blog, on tumblr, for minor pairs. It's minorsherlockprompts dot tumblr dot com. You can basically send prompts for anything other than Johnlock or Mystrade. I've mostly been posting these on my AO3 account, but I'm going to transfer some of the longer ones over here.

This was written for the prompt: Sherlock is having trouble confessing his feelings for Molly, the best he can do is to have her around more often. He brings her on a case where she gets injured and goes into a coma.

Molly looked so wane. Plain though she was, when she was - alive, when she was awake,, she was animated, even if it was a blush, or a stammer. Now she was quiet, the only noise in the room the machines that maintained her life and Sherlock's quiet, choked-back sobs. He had not known what else to do, when she started dating someone else, started to move on from him. Sherlock had been desperate to reclaim her affection, regain that shy smile. He had invited her to come with him, to come on a case. It had gone horribly wrong.

He did not see it coming, did not see such a simple case turning so deadly, so quickly. But it did, and now he was by her side, sitting with his arms crossed, his head held in his hands, feeling the life escape him, little by little. One bullet, one quickly-dead criminal, and six hours sitting in the waiting room, waiting to see if she would make it. The doctor had came out, not smiling. Sherlock's heart had plummeted, and he choked back a sob as the words ran over him. Coma. Unknown length. Possible brain damage. And it was his fault.

Sometimes he sat alone, in the cheap plastic of the visiting chair. The nurses had quit attempting to remove him from her side after the first day. Mycroft's influence, probably. Not that Sherlock really cared. He sat there, his hand clinging to hers. It was his connection, allowing him to hold onto the merest thread of hope. John showed up sometimes, bringing with him food that he made Sherlock eat, borrowing Molly's bedside table. Not that she would need it, comatose as she was.

His fault.

Sherlock was strong. He did not cry, ever. Yet he could not stop the wet tears that spilled down his cheeks as he sat helpless at the side of the person who loved him the most, who wanted to help him more than anyone he had ever known. I don't count, she had said. If you need anything, she had added, extending a hand to someone who had done nothing but treat her badly because he knew no other way to show he cared.

As the days passed, he heard the doctors whisper, heard the term 'persistent vegetative state' passed about like a reality, rather than the possibility. It had only been five days, Sherlock reminded himself. People had come through worse, and Molly was strong. She was a fighter, and - she would make it. The biggest fight was over who would make health decisions for her, as she was a single child with two dead parents. She was in limbo.

Mycroft had fought for her, and won. Her life was in Sherlock's hands. Nothing would be done without his permission, without his say-so. John sat next to him, murmuring quiet words, worthless words. All the meaningless reassurances in the world did nothing. Sherlock knew the statistics, knew that as the days passed, the chances of her coming back were less and less. He knew, in all probability, he had lost her forever. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed painfully around it.

John had insisted on a second hospital bed being added for Sherlock, giving them a larger room. Sherlock had ignored it, glued to Molly's side, the uncomfortable chair. It was such little penance, not enough, but he paid it gladly, endured the pain to make up for all that he had caused her. Finally John had drugged him, slipped a needle into his shoulder when he was not paying attention. Still it was not enough, and Sherlock lost weight, quickly tumbling over the boundary of just thin into unhealthy. Although his body slept, it did not rest.

It had been a week, and Sherlock was still clinging to reality, as tenuous as it was. The Doctors had warned him, even if she did pull through, which was unlikely, there would be neurological damage, she would not be his Molly. Sherlock was smart, smart enough to realize that the thin tendril of hope in his chest was idiotically human. Molly was gone, and he would have to accept that. She was never coming back. It was a door that he had tried to open, in his awkward way, and instead it had been slammed in his face.

He sat at her bedside, two days later, too guilty to leave, but barely able to stay. Already the doctors had broached the idea of removing her from the intensive care unit, transferring her to rehab, where she would stay, a vegetable. John was there nearly constantly, except when he had to work or needed sleep. It was over. Sherlock's heart clenched, and he choked back a sob. He could do this no longer. He could not continue his vigil. It was pointless idiocy, to hold onto such things. Caring had never been an advantage - he only had to look at what his life had become to see the truth of that statement.

Standing, he carefully brushed a lock of Molly's hair out of her eyes, examining her face, burning every little detail into his memory forever. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead, breathing in her scent, her true scent, not the medical smells that tried to cover it. He remembered how her skin felt against his lips, how it felt under his fingers, wished he had been able to learn what her entire body felt like against his, if she cried when she came, what she liked, what she didn't. Sherlock would never see how she smiled, never hear her stammer, never see her blush when he flustered her. She would never hear of the mask he had to hide behind, hiding a part of himself that he wished he could share. He wished he had told her that he loved her, had spoken so many things he had not had the courage to say.

But it was too late.

He leaned down, lips near her ear, and told her. Told her all of the things she would never wake up to hear. That he loved her, that he wanted her, only her, that she had always counted, that she would forever count. She would be the only one that captured him like that, and he would hold her in his heart for the rest of his life. There would never be anyone else like her. He was lost without her, set adrift.

As he stood, he felt his heart shatter like glass, into millions of small, broken pieces. Slowly he stepped towards the door, each centimetre feeling like much longer. It was the longest walk he had ever made. He did not know how he remained standing, moving forward. All he wanted to do was to collapse back into that chair, take her hand, tell her he loved her, over and over, until she came back to him.

Then he heard it.

Heard the slight rustle of fabric, the soft little noise, the faint crinkle of the IV tubes. He barely turned around before nurses were bustling in the room, pushing him out of the way, surrounding her bed. Someone grabbed him, took him outside to the waiting room, sat him down, told him to stay there. He sat, his heart accelerating, distress contorting his feelings, his back to over a week ago. It was like waiting for her to get out of surgery all over again.

His breath came quicker, his fingers tapping restlessly against the arms of the chair, feet shifting restlessly. He felt like there was something sitting on his chest, keeping him from breathing, keeping him from moving, escaping, running - he didn't know what to do, where to go, what was happening. It was all a confusing mass of emotions, preventing any kind of resolution. Mrs. Hudson appeared from nowhere, as if she had been summoned (could he do that?), and laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. Sherlock leaned into the touch, craving it, craving the small bit of reassurance from someone who had always been a caring figure in his life.

John was next, perching on his other side, a quiet, constant presence. Sherlock both hated and craved their companionship, hated what it meant but quietly absorbed it. The doctor finally came through the door, and Sherlock had no idea how long it had been, nor did he care. There was a smile on the doctor's face, a wary one, but a smile nonetheless, and Sherlock clung to it like a dying man on a sinking ship. Ignoring the words coming out of the man's mouth, he darted past, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson behind, heading straight for where he needed to be.

The tube was gone, and she was breathing, fingers twitching occasionally in the sheets as if she was uncertain as to what the appendages did. He breathed her name, eyes wide, unsure of what to do. Then her eyes locked onto his, wide with recognition, and he moved forward, taking her face gently in his long hands, cradling it, pressing gentle, chaste kisses to her lips. Shaking hands covered his, and her eyes were searching, as if seeking out what he wanted, what it was for. He hated the uncertainty he saw, hated how she doubted him, and swore to change it, to never let her doubt him, ever again.

So he told her, told her all of the things he had only been able to say while she was gone. That she was special, that he loved her, that he was hers and she could be his if she wanted. She counted, she had always counted, and would forever count. He was never leaving her again, never letting her go. She watched him, listened, took it all in, and squeezed his hands with trembling fingers, nodding slightly. He smiled, a slight smile, but a smile nonetheless.

He pulled a chair closer, as close as he could get, holding her hand in his. She could not move yet, and was very weak, but Sherlock never left. He stayed close, in constant contact. The nurses learned to work around it, learned that their patient did better when he was close, when he could see her and she could see him. The bond had been reforged, stronger than ever, and it was one Sherlock was never going to break. He could not risk losing her again.

She went through rehab, and he was there. He stayed and assisted, quieting when Molly glared at him and being supportive when she needed him to be. John would smile as he watched them. Mrs. Hudson would bring soup and coo, a delighted smile on her face. It wasn't always easy, not all the time. Sometimes Molly would cry, would hate herself, the fact that her body couldn't move as quickly as it used to, that sometimes her hands would shake. Sherlock would hold her, would kiss her hair as she cried, and whisper that she was beautiful, that she was lovely, she was perfect. She counted, always counted, and he needed her, would need her the rest of his life. The cries would quiet, and peace would be restored as they held each other through the night.

Eventually Molly was able to return to work, and she did. Pathology was what she loved, what she wanted to do with her life. Sherlock went back to solving cases, chasing down criminals. Sometimes Molly would work through the night, hunting down the cause of death in an important case. Sherlock would work next to her, tackling his own projects, his own experiments, building off of each other. The nights they could, they went to bed together. Sometimes it was intimate, sometimes it was not. Most nights they just held each other, murmuring endearments. Sherlock was always the last to speak before Molly fell asleep. It was their ritual, their mantra.

Sometimes Molly fell asleep before he could say the words, but he always said them, no matter what. He never wanted to risk her dying without knowing what he wanted her to know.

You have always counted, I will always need you, and I will always love you.