Molly brushed her thin fingers over the older scars, feeling the warmth in her cold hands from the skin. She hated these days, the days when he treated her like a toy, to be used and then thrown away, because she couldn't stop him. Word after word boosted her, just to deflate her again. John made it better, of course, his presence made him a little more human, but it still hurt. Every time he looked past her, and threw her like a doll, she crumbled a little more. And those where the days when it was the worse, when she would turn the music up so she couldn't hear her own cries, as the razor cut into her skin, keeping her sane as she went crazy. They took her to a hospital once, when she was a child, to try and make her feel better about the stares, and the pain from inside her. It didn't work, just made her better at hiding it. She was so good now, at keeping secrets, even Sherlock didn't see how broken she was, beneath her smiles and kind words and pink jumpers. She was shattered once, and he just crushed the glass beneath his feet. He was killing her, day by day. And he would never know.