How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 50: Recovery

Molly had been on the mend for nearly two weeks now, and had been using crutches ever since halfway through the first week to get around. Sherlock had stayed long enough to see her open her eyes on the third day, but stayed out of her line of sight. He'd panicked then, the feeling in his chest overwhelming him, and he'd turned and run out of the room, going back to the flat. He hadn't left since, ignoring both the pathologist and cases, as well as John.

Mycroft had been to see her every day, under the guise of informing Sherlock on her progress. While he had done that, Sherlock knew that Mycroft had a soft spot for the little woman, and would go to see her even if Sherlock was there himself.

Sherlock hadn't slept in going on three days. The sleep he had gotten then was fitful and he'd tossed and turned, reaching out for Molly, only to feel the coolness of the sheets where her warm body should have been. His eating habits were worse; he couldn't remember the last thing that he had eaten.

He'd spent his time wandering through his mind palace, at first trying to delete memories of his love, eventually giving up and simply remembering every moment they'd spent together. He thought of how her hair smelled after she'd showered, and the way she looked covered in bubbles when he burst in on her baths. Sherlock recalled the sounds she made when sleeping, the soft sighs and unconscious moans as she rolled over, invading his sleeping space. He remembered how it felt to hold her in his arms, her petite body pressed against his, the overwhelming protective feeling making his chest tight.

And he thought about when they'd made love. His name falling from her lips at the heights of ecstasy, the tensing of her muscles just before she came, the way she held onto him as he moved within her. When he'd first pulled her close for a kiss, her tiny body wrapped in a towel, the primal urge to rip it off of her and take her right then. The alleyway, when he'd made her swear that she was his and only his. The first frantic coupling against the wall, his eyes had flitted to the spot automatically. Making love in the new tub he'd bought her for Valentine's Day, knowing how much she missed the one she'd enjoyed at her own flat and hoping that she'd like his better. When he'd undressed and teased her in the kitchen before carrying her to his bed to ravish her over and over. Taking her on the kitchen table, making her scream as he smacked her bum, forcing her to count as he punished her for taking over his entire existence. Finding her again and again that night, losing himself inside of her sweet warmth.

It all seemed so long ago, though the last time he'd had her was a little over two weeks before. The day before he was stupid enough to drive her away and give Moran the perfect opportunity to take her.

Sherlock had stopped his remembrances at that. It was too painful to think of the way he'd callously pushed her away, not even turning when she'd walked out the door.

He began composing without even realizing it. There was certainly no conscious decision to do so. He only noticed he was doing it when he'd played the same melody over and over for hours. His arms ached, his fingers cracked and dry, close to bleeding, but still he played on, lost in the song that said everything he felt for Molly.

The melody was longing, low, slow notes drawing out the first part of the song, when he had suppressed his feelings for the little pathologist, before turning to a quick, light tune, full of hope and promise. Visions of her smile ran through his head as he played. Then, the lower notes came back, but sounding more like a swift, violent storm. Her face, blank, devoid of all emotion. Then it switched over to a minor key, the melody haunting and sad, visions of the sterile hospital room running through Sherlock's head. It ended rather abruptly after that, as Sherlock didn't yet know what the tone of the final movement would be.

He couldn't bring himself to go back to the hospital, but anxiously awaited when she could come home. Then, when she was safely back with him at Baker Street, he'd find the courage to tell her exactly what she meant to him. He was sure of it.

Despite what he'd told John about his decision to leave her alone, Sherlock knew he wasn't strong enough to give her up for good. He recognized his own addictive personality and knew he couldn't go forever without his fix. Only now, instead of craving a seven percent solution, (of course, those cravings were always going to be there, only now he could shut them down,) he craved her. He couldn't live without her touch, her presence. Molly Hooper was Sherlock Holmes' new drug and he didn't intend to ever be without her.

"Sherlock, you haven't been to the hospital since Molly came out of the sedation!"

John slammed the door behind him as he entered 221B. Sherlock stood by the window in his dressing gown, his violin dangling from one hand, the bow from the other. He hadn't moved from that position in hours. John held some flowers in his left hand, down by his side.

"She's getting out of the hospital tomorrow, Sherlock. She's walking well, though," John gave a rueful laugh, "I know you already know that since Mycroft is there at least once a day. I'm sure he's reporting to you." He shook his head. "Never thought I'd see the day when Mycroft is more attentive to Molly than you are."

The detective turned to face his friend and shook his head. "I can't go back there. I'll wait until Molly comes here to talk to her."

John cocked his head to the side and Sherlock got the odd feeling that his friend was mimicking his style of deducing people.

"Are you sure she'll come here?"

"Of course she will," Sherlock said dismissively. "Where else would she go? We've already established that she'll forgive me for putting her in danger, which I assure you will never happen again."

John was silent, but then nodded. "I suppose you're right. But you better make sure it doesn't," he added, shaking a finger at Sherlock, who nodded solemnly.

"Anyway, I'm on the way to take her some flowers now. Anything you want me to tell her?" John held up the bouquet that had been hanging by his side the entirety of the conversation.

Sherlock thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No everything I have to say is better left to do face to face," he replied. "I'll say it tomorrow."

One more day. I can find the courage to do it in one more day.