Chapter Seven

                                    

                                          
This might be the last chapter. If not, I can probably drag it out for one or two more chapters. I'm not sure, though. Maybe I do one chapter entirely in Sherlock's POV where he's staying with Irene and then one chapter entirely in Molly's POV when she gets home and then the final chapter is Sherlolly make-up after TFP.
                          
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"You know you have to go in a few hours," Mycroft said, leaning in the doorway. 
                          
Sherlock didn't look up from Molly's bedside. She'd been asleep the whole day. He supposed it was all the stress of everything that had happened lately catching up to her. Sherlock didn't want to leave her. He knew that if he took her with him there was the possibility of her getting hurt. Besides, John needed her. 
                          
"I know," Sherlock whispered. "You'll look after her, won't you?"
                          
"I'll make sure she's recovering and she's safe, if that's what you mean," Mycroft said. 
                          
"Good," Sherlock said. 
                          
"You mustn't let sentiment get in the way, brother mine," Mycroft said. 
                          
"I haven't the slightest idea of what you're talking about," Sherlock snapped. 
                          
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You know what happens when you get attached, Sherlock. Redbeard, remember?"
                          
Sherlock stiffened a bit, a sense of cold washing over him. Mycroft watched his brother, almost studying him. Sherlock was panicked for a moment before he settled down. Mycroft relaxed as well.
                          
"You don't have to keep reminding me, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, casting a glare at his brother. 
                          
"I'm only trying to help you," Mycroft said gently. 
                          
"Well, stop then," Sherlock said. "I don't need your help. I don't want your help." 
                          
"You did when you had to fake your death," Mycroft pointed out. That managed to shut Sherlock up. 
                          
"How long will it take for her to heel?" He changed the subject.
                          
"Don't know," Mycroft admitted. "Probably a couple of months. If she wakes up before you're departure, tell her that she must be careful not to let anyone know about her injury. I will send for her when the wound is healed and her stitches can come out."
                          
Sherlock just nodded. Mycroft stayed for a moment longer before leaving his brother to keep vigil over Molly's bedside. 
                          
The more Sherlock thought about leaving his beloved London and Molly, the more his heart ached. He'd already had to leave John. Now he had to leave Molly and London as well? He was surprised at the feeling of what he could only assume was heartbreak. He hadn't felt it since he was very, very young. The last time he had experienced it was when Redbeard had...how had Redbeard died, again? The more Sherlock thought about it, the more frustrated and heartbroken he felt. He suddenly felt something wet on his face. He wiped it away and it turned out that it was tears. He was crying. Why on earth was he crying? Best not to think about Redbeard, he decided. 
                          
Why can't I remember how he died, though? Sherlock thought. I must have deleted it. Why would I have done that? I should ask Mycroft. He seems to love bringing it up. 
                          
Sherlock took a deep breath and sighed, composing himself. He wanted to see John one last time before he left. He would need a disguise. He couldn't risk putting John in danger. That would be easy, though. He had some hair dye and clothes at Molly's flat. Yes, he would go and see John and then say goodbye to Molly later.
                          
Sherlock left Molly's room and went to Mycroft's office. Mycroft glanced up at his little brother before looking back down at his papers. 
                          
"Come to apologize?" he snootily asked. Sherlock gritted his teeth.