Declaimer: I hold no copy right ownership of BBC Sherlock. The plot is mainly a string of thoughts forming in my mind and onto paper.
If she closed her eyes and pretended for a couple minutes, she could almost envision her apartment filled with imaginary friends and family members. The chatter would fill the empty room, festive decorations would brighten up the walls, and unmolded food would litter the tables. (Because she knew that the food in her fridge was beyond edible.) She could smile, laugh, and maybe even flirt with a man or two as the night processed and the drinks went to her head. She could be happy. Happy to not be alone on such a day.
If only she pretended just hard enough.
The cold seeped into her skin, chilling her bones with a coldness that made her wish for death. She didn't even bother crying. Tears dried and spent ages ago. She opened her closed eyes, taking in the half darken room around her. A bit of dust layered the top of the surrounding furniture. A carton of half eaten ice cream half hanged off the coffee table in front of her. She was laying back against her old and worn couch, Toby sitting against her leg, unaware of his master's inner issues.
She was alone again. Big surprise there. It was Christmas Eve, and she was still in her pajamas and not a care was given to her distress. She was innocent. Or so she told herself. She hated everybody who left her. Her mother for quitting on her family. Her father for dying early. Her friends and past lovers. Jim. Sherlock. She was tired of being used. Tired of being left behind to pick up her own broken pieces off the ground and expected to just keep calm and carry on.
She had to live with the fact that John Watson and many other people had to handle the Holiday living in a fantasy world where Sherlock Holmes was dead. Gone from the world. Living the fantasy while he was alive, set out to break down the web that had them all hanging by it's strings. To live with that guilt was eating her alive. She didn't know what to do with the sadness and loneliness that gripped her heart. It strangled her every day she thought about John's sad eyes, Mrs. Hudson quiet persona, and even Lestrade's presence at the Morgue.
She looked at the bottle of pills on the stand next to her, eyes unfocused on the words, knowing that the end result was the same. She autopsy enough bodies to know exactly what she could look like. She often envisioned how the acting pathologist would cut her open. The scalpel cutting her flesh open, categorizing each organ and slowly breaking down Molly Hooper to her most basic structure. She didn't want to be alone. Not anymore. She imagined she was strong. Stronger than most people gave her credit for, knowing that she could stop fighting the pain and just rest. Away from the gripping pain.
She sighed, knowing she wasn't strong enough to even kill herself. Not even having the strength to write a note. She knew it was what people did in those type of situations. She felt a twitch in her lungs, the pain creeping up and dragged her further into her pit. Grabbing Toby, she hugged him into her chest and let the tears she thought were already spent, creep down her cheek.
"It's just you and I, Toby."
"You and I."