What Does She Need?

Evacuate

It had all been one incessant blur, Molly was still dazed and a little traumatised by it all as she looked out of the window and scoped the dark green fields below that looked like minuscule details of patchwork. She'd never been in a helicopter before, so this was all very new - and very daunting - to her.
After the first gunshot had fired and, fortunately, missed, she remembered the way Sherlock's eyes had expanded to the point whereby she'd suspected they would burst. His face had become overwhelmed with fear and seemed to drop slowly, however it was merely a second later that he swung her past him and into the back of one of the cars. She'd felt the landing impact up all of her left side but it was only a dull ache, and she was more concerned as to why Sherlock had slammed the door and not opted for safety with her.
Pushing herself up, she'd glanced out the opaque windows and tried to gage the blurred view: she'd seen a lanky frame with an arm outstretched and suddenly she was witnessing the same arm jerking backwards, milliseconds after a dull echo had filled her ears. The figure had then darted towards the vehicle and flung the door wide open, to reveal Sherlock diving into the backseat himself.
"Drive!" he had commanded, his voice a hoarse yet imperative yell.
Without need for further instruction, the car had darted into motion and Molly glimpsed bodies hurtling out of the car's warpath.
"Did you just shoot someone?" Molly exclaimed in horror, her chest rising and falling at a rapid pace.
He shrugged, but his breath was still oscillating rapidly. "Nothing I haven't done before, and if not they'd have shot me-"
"Nothing that hasn't been done before," she interjected, smiling slightly. Although, she remembered when she found out he had been shot and the worry that had overridden her had been paralysing, she shuddered at the very thought of it.
She was silently pleased when he smirked and his crystal eyes softened. "And if not they'd have shot you ... and I would not have had that."
Molly had ducked her head and tried not to read too much into his words. Of course he wouldn't want you to be shot, she told herself.
The car continued to speed onwards down backstreets and unfamiliar roads, the two passengers remaining silent for the duration.
Eventually, the silence had been broken: "You're not okay," Sherlock observed, turning his gaze to her.
"I'm fine," she responded, shaking her head dismissively.
"I'd have asked if you were okay if I thought there was any possibility that you could be. You've just been through a massive ordeal, you've been working since early this morning so your fatigued brain is already struggling and on top of that there's ... well .... yesterday."
     "You still haven't explained," she had pointed out as she'd anxiously shuffled about in her seat. Her eyes had then met a solemn expression.
     "I know."

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The helicopter swiftly lowered itself onto the landing pad that sat leisurely in the middle of a barren field. It was a completely open space, the circumference of which was surrounded by waving trees that stood tall and obstructed all view of other surroundings.
After unstrapping herself and removing her headphones, Molly swung her legs round and prepared to jump from the high step of the helicopter. A pale hand outstretched and, not thinking, Molly grabbed onto it as it guided her down to the ground.
"Thanks," she nodded, not gazing up at his undoubtedly glittering eyes but walking onwards to where Mycroft stood in the middle of the field, awaiting them. Sherlock followed suit, his long strides catching up with her short ones within seconds.
"Where are we? Is anyone going to explain to me what on earth is going on?" she demanded as she stood before the older Holmes. His brows were arched and his lips upturned into a bemused expression.
Sherlock couldn't help but give a smug smile and feel a strange spurt of pride at how Molly had just interrogated his brother with such confidence and lack of thought.
"Where you are is safe and I should think my brother will be only too kind as to fully inform you upon our arrival at the safe house," Mycroft blurted, with an impressive pace and lack of intonation.
"Safe house?" Sherlock chimed in, his left eyebrow dipping in confusion and his face scrunching in a perplexed manner.
"Matter of speaking, but yes," his brother said casually. "It's a twenty seven minute walk from here if we walk at a regular pace, do follow."
With that the three of them trudged through the tree ladened trail and wound their way through the woods, no more words spoken. Mycroft strolled in front but Sherlock had decided to stay a few metres back, in line with Molly. Of course, she had spaced herself at least two metres away from him and was deliberately glancing up and around at the orbit of greenery overlooking them.
Eventually they broke out of the brambles and trees and stood before a long bridge that stretched over a shimmering pond, the early evening moonlight sprawled across its ripples. At the end of the thin wooden bridge, a barrage of little buildings were visible; it looked to be a small town, dimly lit by what could have been street lamps.
"Now, this is where I leave you," Mycroft stopped at the foot of the bridge, turning to face them.
It was Sherlock who was now frustrated. "And leave us to do what? You've told us nothing!"
"Worry not, I'll return tomorrow to go over things with you, however I have more pressing issues until then which simply cannot go untended."
"That's why we didn't hear the helicopter fly away ... I did wonder," Sherlock pointed out and shook his head in disbelief, crossing his long arms in front of him.
Molly couldn't help but think that he looked astonishing, the golden light reflecting off of the water and illuminating his face, his stance so effortless and his temperament adding shape to his expression.
"For the time being, I have taken care of your accommodation," Mycroft explained as he dropped two seemingly identical keys in Sherlock's ghostly palm. "You'll find a B&B on the corner of the town square. I'm sure you will find it ... idyllic."
"Your kindness forever astounds me, Mycroft." Sherlock quipped as he shot his brother one final glare. Mycroft seemed not to acknowledge it. "Come along then, Molly. Let us not waste time in seeing which hovel we have been dumped in."
Sherlock strutted, perhaps a tad too dramatically, onto the bridge, leaving Molly to follow.
She turned her head to Mycroft and gave a demure smile, feeling awkward and not knowing what to do.
"Take care of him. He's been through a terrible lot."
So have I, she thought, but failed to say so.
"I always do," she muttered, stepping onto the bridge and giving a small huff.
"I'm aware," Mycroft responded, admittedly unexpectedly. "And so is he."
     Molly could only respond with a grave nod of the head before skittering down the rickety bridge - not half as elegantly as Sherlock had done.
     She lifted her gaze momentarily to see Sherlock had already reached the end of the bridge; she was not even half way.
Show off. Long-legged show off.
     Sherlock stood and waited at the end of the bridge, he couldn't help but watch Molly as she continued to stride her way forward unevenly; her hair was still in her neat, orderly ponytail and she wore a sad expression. That said, she'd been wearing the same expression more or less all day. He hated knowing that he was the cause of it, but this time it wasn't something he could ignore or run away from, and he supposed he didn't want to escape it either.
     She had finally pottered her way to him and he gifted her with a warm smile, not at all surprised when she found herself unable to reciprocate it, although perhaps a little disappointed. 
     He noticed then that her skin was a shade paler than usual and her cheeks were flustered, her teeth chattered with extreme ferocity.
     "You're cold," he observed, his voice gentle and smooth which only sent more shivers down her spine. "Here," he all but whispered as he untied the dark blue scarf from round his neck and carefully fitted it round hers, adjusting it slightly.
     "Thank you," she whispered, her voice aching from the cold night's air. She even tried to smile at him, but she was unsure as to whether he had caught it or not.
     "No trouble. Now, let's get going - we don't want you-" he hesitated. We don't want you catching your death out here. He had been about to say it and remembered exactly what the possibility of her death had done to him ... had done to her. He screwed his eyes firmly shut a moment. "-to catch a cold. That would be very bad. Yes, very bad indeed."
Like you care. Molly thought to herself, yet quickly batted the thought away. She would not turn bitter, would not be a woman scorned. That just was not her and, besides, she still had to hear his side of the story.
     It was too dark to take in much of the detail of the street, though it seemed quaint and quite tranquil. Molly imagined that this would be the sort of place children would have been evacuated to during the Second World War. The street was seemingly narrow and many of the shops and houses had bunting strung upon them, or what seemed to be hanging baskets.
     After a few minutes the street became less narrow and eventually they approached a square; a fountain stood in the middle of the square and there were benches scattered about, as well as a few closed up carts that looked to belong to some sort of vendor.
     As Mycroft had instructed, a tall building jutted out on the corner. It was white and so still visible against the darkness of the evening, although it had dark window frames and at least five floors to the building - judging by the windows lining the side of the building.
     The pair approached the front door but were met by a small white fence and black metal gate. Molly pushed the gate, then pulled at it, then gawped at it in defeat.
     "Molly," Sherlock's steady voice echoed, but she turned to see the corners of his mouth were outstretched into his defined cheeks and his eyes were ablaze. "There's a handle."
     His hand met a smaller piece of metal and pushed down on it, the gate now opening with ease. He didn't look smug, but instead greatly amused.
     "Ah, right," she muttered, nodding at the blatantly obvious simplicity of the everyday contraption.
     She felt Sherlock's warm palm press between her shoulder blades softly, guiding her forwards. In a desperate attempt to not shudder at this, she had already failed.
     Sherlock opened the door and they were greeted by soft lighting and a toasty climate. The reception reminded her of a library; not that there were any books to be seen, but it was deliberately decorated with an old Victorian theme in mind, which worked as it was clearly a deliberate effort, not just an abundance of outdated furniture. In fact, the large hearth of the fire and the scarlet leather armchairs contributed to the resemblance of 221B itself.
     A dark oak desk was comfortably positioned at the back of the room and either side of it was an oak door of the same shade. A brass bell sat atop the desk, and Sherlock had no qualms about slamming his hand onto it, sending out a large ringing noise.
     Immediately footsteps could be heard and, in just under a minute, a jovial woman with rosy cheeks and a toothy grin appeared from out of one of the side doors.
     "Hello!" she mused enthusiastically, bouncing about behind the desk. Her accent was think and her tone extremely high pitched, voice booming. "I'm Susan, I take it you're the younger Holmes brother? Mycroft had someone stop by earlier. You have the keys for your rooms already?"
     "We do," he replied, also beaming back at Susan. Susan had not, however, noticed the way in which he had given an affectionate look towards Molly as he had said "we". 
     "Excellent, and it was definitely two rooms you needed instead of one?" Susan enquired, somewhat inquisitively, not being able to comprehend why two people who looked to be a couple would wish to have separate rooms.
     Sherlock caught on to Susan's train of thought and he opened his mouth to confirm the two rooms, but before he could do so it would seem Molly had also deduced Susan's thought pattern and beat him to it. Touché.
     "Yes, we're not together," she said in a dry and clear tone. Sherlock couldn't help but clamp his mouth shut and bite his lip. That had hurt him, but she was telling the truth and she had every right to act coldly towards him.
     Fortunately, Susan had not picked up on the tension and continued to bare her extremely shiny teeth in the most curvaceous grin.
     "Okay, dearie. Your rooms are just up those stairs, you're both on the third floor. Breakfast is served in the dining hall at eight tomorrow morning," Susan gestured to the door on the right of her. "Is there anything I can be getting for you in the meantime? We offer room service until ten every night!"
     "Hm, I'm actually rather peckish," Sherlock decided, moving his jaw from side to side. "Would you be able to send something light up to my room, enough for two people. Yes, Molly?"
     He gave her a questioning look. She could only imagine that this meant they would be talking about, well, everything.
     "Yes, that's fine," she nodded politely, attempting to even out her smile to make it seem at least a fraction more genuine.
     With a few last words, Susan tottered off to the kitchen and the two made their way up the stairs to the third floor. There were only two rooms on it, both opposite each other on the landing and between them stood another door that was not a room, as for the lack of a golden number fixed upon it.
     "Ooooo," Sherlock hummed. "Wonder what's in here."
Without any deterrence, he flung the door open the door and popped his head round. Molly stood near the winding staircase with her arms folded in front of her, scowling slightly.
"Nothing good," Sherlock announced as he stepped back onto the landing, straightening his coat and grinning a little. "Just a store cupboard, it would seem."
"Oh," she said. She wasn't really sure she knew what else to say anymore.
Sherlock took a few strides towards his room and fished a key from his pocket, giving it a methodical twist in the lock before the door swung open. He grasped the handle and pulled the door wide.
"You don't plan on standing there all night, do you?" he joked as he flicked his head over his shoulder to beam at her. His hair ruffled as he did so and Molly found herself gulping so not to stutter when she finally did speak.
"Actually, I might just go to my room. I'm tired and-"
"Nonsense. I've got your key, you'll have to come in and eat something first. It would be counterproductive for you to waste away from starvation, wouldn't it?"
"Suppose," she mumbled, traipsing her way through into the room.
It was nice; simple, but with everything that one would require - even that one being Sherlock.
The room itself was a royal blue colour, and an oak four-poster bed was shoved against the wall, with slightly shabby nighstands on either side, upon each of which stood an ornamental lamp. There was a matching oak desk and chair, along with a wardrobe and dressing table. A small fire faced the bed and had a tin bucket beside it, brimming with logs and twigs. There was also another oak door which Molly presumed must be the bathroom.
"Yes," Sherlock nodded, his eyes flitting round the room. "This will do quite nicely."
He slid off his coat and carefully smoothed it out along the bed. Molly decided to abandon her own coat, shrugging it off and strewing it over the desk chair carelessly. Her hands met the piece of material that warmed her neck.
"Ah, Sherlock. I've still got your scarf," she mumbled as she fiddled about with it until it began to become looser and fall from her neck into her hands.
Sherlock watched the way the nape of her neck now appeared too exposed, as though even the cold could take her away from him.
"Erm, y-yes," he stammered, inwardly kicking himself. He fully turned as she stopped in front of him and handed him the scarf, their fingers brushing as he took it from her, his own fingertips lingering just a second too long.
Her eyes were bulging but her pupils remained their regular size, implying worry or even fear. She looked so childlike and innocent in that moment, her cheeks flushed and her mouth trembling, clearly trying to shape together words but not getting too far.
Molly knew he was reading her, she always knew when he was doing it. She wondered how much of what she felt he was deducing correctly. With any luck, not much.
However, her self deprecation was abruptly cut off when she felt his long arms slip around her upper body, dragging her into him. Her face, startled, moulded against his warm chest.
"Don't - don't say a word," he hushed her in a soothing fashion, yet his breathing was rugged and she felt a drop of cool liquid touch her forehead. "I'm just relieved, is all. You're alive."