"Stay here, I'm going to check all the rooms," Sherlock murmured. Molly nodded quickly and clutched her travel bag tighter.
She hadn't really known what to bring; she'd never gone into hiding before. Sherlock had insisted she pack light, assuring her they could pick up anything they needed along the way. She had done her best to heed this, though the weather was changing and she knew she would need warm clothes. Poor circulation ran in the family.
She had called work to inform them she had a family emergency, and wouldn't be able to come in for a time. Dr. Moran was very understanding, and had kindly wished her family all the best.
Now, standing in the odd little cottage Mycroft had sent them to, with so little familiarity to surround herself with, Molly hadn't a clue what she should do. Sherlock had made her take out the battery in her phone, and had done likewise. He'd bought them burners, instructing her in his favourite codes to text, in case someone intercepted. She wasn't allowed to contact her family yet. That made her feel intensely panicky.
Sherlock stalked around the house, checking every corner and crevice. So far there'd been no signs to concern him, but he refused to let his guard down. He had a grim determination about him; he wouldn't let Molly be hurt.
"Sherlock!"
Her desperate wail echoed in his ears and his stomach dropped with a sickening dread. He rushed to the tiny kitchen where he'd left her alone and defenseless. What was he thinking! He was so angry with himself, and so....
He collided with the tiny woman as he turned the corner to the living room.
"Sherlock," she gasped, her eyes wide as he held her by the arms, frantically searching her petite frame for any possible problems. "What's wrong?", she asked breathlessly.
He stared at her earnest face in confusion. "I heard you call me," he responded slowly, and she shook her head. "I didn't say anything, Sherlock," she murmured, and he tensed. He'd heard her scream for him. Hadn't he? He paused, trying to recall, to understand, and recognition slapped him in the face.
"Sherlock!"
That particular call, he'd heard it before.
"Darling," she'd whispered, so wracked with sobs, he'd hardly comprehended the word.
The fifth night at her flat. Her night terrors were repeating. That night, as he woke to her cries, a sick anxiety had filled his chest. Almost immediately, he rolled out of his makeshift bed on the couch and padded down the hallway towards her. He hadn't woken Molly like the time before. Instead, he had crawled into bed beside her, drawing her thrashing form close to his chest. She'd sobbed out his name, and his throat had tightened. He held her protectively, running his hands along her back, pressing his face into her hair. Slowly, she quietened, peace washing over her, and fallen asleep still wrapped in his arms. But he'd laid awake for hours after, desperately working to find a solution to Molly's pain.
The next morning he'd woken first, and gently untangled himself, leaving before she woke.
"Sherlock, are you okay?"
He came back to the present to see Molly's beautiful eyes full of worry. His hands still on her arms, he willed himself to relax. It had just been a memory induced by anxiety. He released her, and began removing his coat and scarf. "I'm fine, Molly, thank you," he replied. She didn't appear convinced, but chose not to question him further.
Her eyes flitted back to him repeatedly as they wandered about the safe house, acquainting themselves with their new space. She noticed his reluctance to leave a room without her now. He'd looked so terrified earlier, flying into the kitchen and seizing her. She shivered at the thought of his face awash with panic. That wasn't something she liked to see in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.
He watched her carefully. She was anxious, of course, but holding up remarkably well. He was thankful for her strength, and proud of her. The idea startled him at first, but he slowly accepted it. His pathologist was more than just that, she was his saviour and his constant. She was keeping him from going mad, and he knew it.
He needed her. And he didn't need anything.
Her bag was mostly empty now, as she carefully laid her clothes out into the dresser. The one dresser, in the one bedroom, with the one bed.
"Molly."
She turned to face him, pausing her unpacking, a blush threatening to colour her face. "Yes, Sherlock?"
"Where is that blue jumper you love so much?"
She blinked, confused by the question. "Well, um, it's, I didn't bring it," she stammered, her cheeks heating up. Sherlock smirked in response, his voice deliciously teasing.
"Pity. You aren't the only one."
