The Woman Who Counted (A Sherlolly Tale)

Chapter 7

NOTE FROM 2018: This chapter has been edited from its original 2013 publication. It is possible that it may not 100% align with the rest of the story, though that should be fixed soon as I am revising every chapter of this story. Just be patient for the revised publications of the rest of the story and enjoy. xxx –OH

The following week Molly was shocked to find that her flat had not been destroyed by her new lodger. She had taken some vacation days to help Sherlock adjust to life at her flat, which was easier said than done. It wasn't until after the funeral that she convinced Sherlock to sleep in the guest room rather than her room and it took the whole week to get him to do simple things like put his dirty dishes in the sink. At the very least he remembered to put the toilet lid back down after using the loo.

But despite the fact that Sherlock hadn't destroyed the flat, Molly came home from her first day back at work to find him lying on her sofa, arm hanging over the edge. A cigarette dangled from his shaking fingers. She crossed her arms and cleared her throat as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth.

His eyes remained closed as he let out a puff of smoke. "Ah, Molly. How was your day?"

"Where did you get that?"

"Rather rude. I did ask you a question."

She set her bag down by the sofa and snatched the cigarette from his hands, causing his eyes to flicker open. "Where did you get it?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, standing up and taking the cigarette back. "Fritz of my Homeless Network. Kind soul knew I'd be needing a fix and brought me a box. How thoughtful." He took a step forward and wobbled, seeming to momentarily lose his balance, and then continued toward the kitchen. He took one last drag of his cigarette before putting it under the faucet and running water. He then tossed it into the bin, during which Molly noticed a patch from underneath his sleeve.

"Sherlock, what's that?"

"What?"

She stomped over to him and pushed up his sleeve, causing him to wobble again as she exposed two nicotine patches. "Bloody Hell!" Fury sprang to life as she ripped off the patches.

He yanked his arm away. "What's the matter with you?"

"You could kill yourself, you know that?" she fumed as the patches joined the cigarette in the bin.

"I could, yes, but I haven't."

"Yet! How's your head?"

"My head?"

"Headache. Have you got a headache?" She placed a hand over his heart, which had a slightly elevated beating. "Obviously you're experiencing dizziness. Your hands are shaking." She took one hand, examining it and rubbing a thumb over his palm. "Slightly moist. Bloody hell. You need to lie down." She guided him to the guest bedroom, but he stopped in the doorway, refusing to go on.

"Seriously, Molly. I'm fine."

"No, Sherlock, you are very near to a nicotine overdose."

"I'm. Fine."

"Sherlock!" Anger bubbling inside her, clouding her thoughts as she took his hand and attempted to lead him into the bedroom once again, but he yanked it away, twisting her wrist in the process. She cried out, turning away from him as she clutched her hand.

When she looked back at him she watched his eyes flicker between repentance and vexed. He turned on his heel, gave himself a second to rebalance, and then tromped toward the front door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. I need some air."

"Sherlock, you said it yourself you can't go outside." The door slammed behind him. "Sherlock!"