Reminiscent Regret and Conjunctive Kismet

Cloudy With A Chance Of Feelings

"Sherlock, sit still!" Molly shouts, slightly irritated at the man child in her midst. It has been a month since he had left the hospital and had come to live with her so she could help him out. Lord knows that she's the only one who has the time, or even the patience to deal with him. Surely, he and Mycroft would kill each other if he had to stay at his brother's, and John already has enough on his plate with Rosie getting ready for preschool and beginning to enter into the dating world again. Lestrade has his children every other weekend, and though they are older, he could still influence them, possibly more so than he could Rosie. Especially since his two older girls, Emily and Lily are teens, and the two younger ones are ten and seven. His seven-year-old son Dylan would probably love looking at murder scenes, much like little Archie Wilkins, and so would Gracie, the tomboy. Not that she doesn't enjoy being the kind of friend that he knows he can rely on, but really, sometimes he can be the most impossible man in the world. Luckily, Mycroft had gotten a care nurse to come in the mornings and at night to help Sherlock dress, and they had taught him how to use the restroom while stuck in a wheelchair for a while, without putting undue weight on his thigh or stretching it at all. He gets around just fine in the wheelchair while Molly is at work, but on her days off he is particularly whiny.

"Well, how the hell else am I supposed to react when it hurts??"

"You are such a baby. You didn't even complain this much when blood was gushing from your body like a punctured saline bag."

"You always have the most random metaphors."

"Yeah, well, John isn't the only doctor around. I use what I know."

Sherlock shrugs and grimaces as she pins the new gauze in place. "I need more."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do! Goddamn it Molly, I need some!!"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you're going to sit there and shut up before I shut you up! Is that clear?"

He huffs and pouts, gnarling a bit like a rabid dog. She knows that it's due to the lack of morphine in his system, which he had become attuned to yet again after being in the hospital for over a week. However, this is for the best. It always is. Even a small detox can be difficult because she knows his body is buzzing with want, not with need. Still, she doesn't doubt that he's in at least a little bit of pain. It was quite an ordeal he had gone through. She also understands that sitting and not being able to walk or run or depend on solely himself is a huge blow to him, both mentally and emotionally. Sherlock Holmes is not used to feeling helpless. Even when he was spiraling out of control the previous times, he at least had the option, luckily, he never took it, to run away. This time he is absolutely prisoner to his own physical inability.

Molly sighs and runs a hand through her hair, flipping it back from her face. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to snap at you."

His eyes soften and he looks her over. "I know...I'm a prick."

"You're in pain, and you're frustrated. Anyone would be if they were in the same position. I know it's harder for you though, because of who you are, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry it happened, and I'm sorry I couldn't stop it or get there in time..."

He looks at her, a shocked look coming across his face, his eyes widening a bit. "Molly...what are you saying? You have nothing to apologize to me for. I was lucky enough that you were passing by. There isn't any way you could've stopped it, and I'm glad you didn't have the opportunity to try because the last thing I would want is you getting hurt. Do you understand me? This was in no way your responsibility to deal with, but you saved my life anyway and you're practically still keeping me alive right now since I can't move my leg. I'm grateful for you, and I'm the one who should apologize for acting like a dick. You don't have to deal with this, with me...but yet...you chose to."