A/N: I started this yesterday, intending it to be a drabble, but ended up with a couple of words (or maybe seven thousand) too many, so I'm publishing it here instead of der Tumblr.
Please be aware that this takes place in a mental health hospital, if you are sensitive to the topic of mental illness (depression and drug addiction) or the setting.
That said, I truly hope I managed to convey a positive attitude about the hospital and Sherlock and Molly's reasons for being there. Like any healthcare facility, I've encountered some that are poorly run and do little to help their patients, but I also have experience with some that do wonderful work with genuine care.
Thank you so much for reading!
Wellspring
They meet by the coffee pot.
It's the tepid, watery stuff that Molly hates, and she doesn't try to hide it. Wrinkling her nose, she glares at the all-too-transparent liquid in her plastic mug that bears the light stains from weak coffees of yore.
"It's disgusting," a man's voice comes from behind her.
She's lucky the coffee is lukewarm when she starts. It sloshes over the mug rim and drips down the back of her hand. Cursing softly, she grabs a paper serviette and futilely wipes at the spilt liquid.
"Mmhmm," Molly agrees, at a loss for anything else to say. Small talk has never been her forte.
"And that that particular carafe hasn't been refilled in two days. Just reheated," the man continues.
"Unsurprising." Still, she asks, "How do you know for sure?"
"Caffeine content. Like any other chemical, it breaks down. Twenty-four hours at room temperature and caffeine is decreased by 40%. I'd been finding less and less fortification from it, so I started keeping track of my energy levels starting on Sundays, when they brew it."
He looks at her haughtily, and Molly can't help but ask, "What are you using for a control?"
Wilting a little, the man sniffs and says, "A lifetime of nearly religious coffee drinking."
"But what about a subject who doesn't drink any caffeine? Or a double-blind?"
Now, he just looks annoyed. "I used the resources that were available to me. You'll note that we're patients in hospital."
"I'd not forgotten. You're a scientist?"
He nods. "Yes. I hold a First and Master of Science in Chemistry." He waves that away. "I've never worked as a chemist, however."
"Then what do you do?" She slurps from her coffee before grimacing, remembering how unappetizing it really is.
"I'm a consultant of sorts."
"A consulting chemist?" Molly herself has an interest in becoming a consultant, but it's a long way down the road, after the specialty registrar program that she's supposed to begin in a year. If you can muster it, says a despairing voice in her head. She tunes it out and forcibly returns her attention to the man.
"—a Consulting Detective," he is saying.
"A what?"
"I recently lent my aid to the Met in London for a few cases. They have expressed an interest in continuing this, because they're so often overwhelmed with the baffling responsibilities of law and order." He looks rather gleeful with his own critique of Scotland Yard.
It's actually rather fascinating, but the man's cockiness at the expense of others has her back up a little. And she already knows just what words will raise his hackles.
"Oh, so you're a psychic? Brought in to communicate with murder victims? That's great! I can't say I've ever given the paranormal much credence, but if you're happy…." She smiles at him guilelessly.
His face turns stormy. Success.
"Psychics are two-bit hacks who use simple balances of probability to swindle any sucker stupid enough to buy their trade. I actually employ a scientific method to what I do. I use deduction, much like psychics, but I am actually good at it." He narrows his eyes. "And you're a doctor—a… surgeon, recently graduated."
She feels a spike of alarm. "Was one of my doctors telling you about—"
"No, no. You're hardly interesting enough for me to ask after. Not that they'd tell me. They're obnoxiously discreet. I deduced it. Case in point," he rattles off a list of tells—scars, callouses, dry skin—and then waits for her awed appreciation.
"You just pointed out that we're in hospital. A mental health hospital. We're a bit restricted here," she shoots back. "The dry skin could be because I didn't exactly bring my pots of hand cream."
"Hmm, yes. For a low-security facility, it is rather stringent. But you've only been here three days. The cracking at the webs of your fingers is from frequent hand scrubbing with iodine sponge-brushes. Even if they weren't dry, there's a little bit of iodine underneath your thumb nail, and I've yet to observe any compulsive behavior from you."
"You've hardly seen me," she reminds him.
"True. But I'm normally good at accurate first assessments. How long will you be here?"
Molly shrugs.
He nods thoughtfully. "Treatment for severe depression certainly doesn't have the same defined terms as other illnesses. Certainly not the ubiquitous ninety day incarceration for opioid addiction." The faded track marks in the crooks of his elbows meant she hadn't needed to wonder much about why he's here, and this only confirms it.
She nods, but her she's not really listening anymore. He knows about the pain she'd thought she kept so well hidden just by looking at her. He knows everything about her. She's vulnerable.
It's too overwhelming for a first meeting. Interrupting with a mumbled, poor excuse, she sets her coffee down, willingly risking the wrath of the kitchen staff for not taking it to Dish Return. She hurries past him, swearing under her breath when her socks slip a little on the linoleum.
She sees him again the next day. Funny, that. She'd kept to herself since she was admitted, and had tried to observe the other patients in the vast swaths of free time that she suddenly had. But she'd missed this man until his odd, non-introduction at breakfast the day before.
They're seated across from each other in a group discussion in the now-empty cafeteria. This is really not Molly's thing. She gets flustered and anxious having dozens of eyes on her, and when the group leader asks her to introduce herself, she hurriedly says her name, tripping over the four syllables as if they were four-squared.
The woman leading the group smiles warmly at her, welcomes her, and then nods to the girl next to Molly to continue with introductions.
Sherlock. That's this strange man's name. It's a strange name, so he and it go arm in arm. He is stretched out in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. She'd never felt boredom rolling off of a person in waves until this moment. He is indolent and he sighs gustily while other people talk about their accomplishments and activities that week. He rolls his eyes when Glenna, the group leader, congratulates another patient for using guided imagery during an anxiety attack.
The woman only smiles at him. "You'd be well served to try it, Sherlock—" he scoffs—"I mean it. It can help you ground yourself when things don't make sense. Which," she holds up a hand when he opens his mouth, "will help to calm you when you have a craving."
He lifts his head from the chair back and studies Glenna. And then he shrugs and drops it back down, linking his fingers and resting his hands on his belly.
When it's her turn, Molly forces herself to remember that she's in control. She only need reveal what she wants. But she came here for help and it won't accomplish much to clam up.
Quietly, she relates her decision to seek treatment in hospital after her medication plateaued and she missed several days of work in row, unable to get out of bed, and unable to cope. Several people nod at her in encouragement, and she finds herself feeling a bit bolder, a little more comfortable. And, she notices, Sherlock has straightened, actually listening without comment or sneer while she talks.
They leave not long after, and Sherlock sidles up alongside her through the exodus. "You're one of the few people I've met who've voluntarily come to this place."
Molly fiddles with the drawstring of her sweatpants, and she focuses on not slipping on the floor as she's done several times already. "I want to feel better."
"Well you're not unique there," he says. "That doesn't mean people always choose the right approach." He waves a vague hand at his arms.
Molly nods. "And is this the right approach; coming here?"
Sherlock leads them over to a shaft of light streaming in from a window. "I've been to far worse. This hospital is one of the best in the country for mental health issues and rehabilitation. The staff aren't power-hungry or abusive, which is always a risk in small towns that host such places. And the chips they serve at least once a week are some of the best I've ever had."
Though she fails to see how chip quality could contribute to the satisfactory nature of a mental health facility, she finds some of her nerves easing in the pit of her belly. Sherlock may be odd and irascible, but she can't help but trust him. He's just so frank.
Luckily for Molly, she's rarely wrong in that regard. And she does like chips.
"How long have you been here, Sherlock?" she asks.
He has closed his eyes and is facing the shaft of light, like a great cat taking a sunbath. At first, she thinks he hasn't heard her, but finally he murmurs, "Fifty-eight days," face still to the sun.
She nods. "Have they helped you?"
His eyes do open at this, and the light makes them look almost silver. "As best they can," he finally says, after studying her for a moment. And Molly doesn't think she's mistaking some gentleness in his young face as he says it. Almost as if he's reassuring her in as truthful a manner as he is able.
It's almost enough. She's skeptical that they'll manage to cure any of her ills.
Someone calling her name has Molly looking away, and she finds a nurse hailing her, with news of a phone call from her Auntie Eunice.
Giving Sherlock a hasty farewell, Molly hurries away, nearly careening into a doorjamb as she does yet another, graceless Risky Business impression. She thinks she hears a snort of laughter, but when she looks behind her, Sherlock's eyes are closed and he's tilted his head back to better receive the watery sunlight.
The hospital has normal recreation times scheduled, either in a fairly soulless gymnasium or an even drabber concrete courtyard. It's not until Molly has been in residence for ten days that they're allowed out onto the campus grounds. It's an oddly temperate November morning, though fog still clings stubbornly to the treetops. The grass continues to hold its green but the trees are bare, and Molly thinks on the strange dichotomy of England.
Without thinking about it, she asks Sherlock, "Do you ever wish you lived in one of those places that has real seasons?"
"I wasn't aware we were in a fake season," Sherlock answers distractedly. He is busy skirting the perimeter of an oak tree, looking at some straggler plants that grow at its base, toeing at them with his trainers.
She's learned in her time spent with him that he is abrupt and often rude, but she's also gotten over her fear of annoying him. Annoyed his default setting, so she can't do much more. Besides, he continues to seek her company, so she figures she's the least of however many evils populate the current patient roster.
When Sherlock bothers or is made to leave his room, they usually spend their free time together. In fact, even when he doesn't bother to leave his room—and Molly learned this the hard, subsequent whinging way—he expects her to visit him there. It has reached a point where they only really part company when their differing therapies dictate it and again at bedtime. During meals, they sit at the end of one of the caf tables and discuss what many would consider wholly inappropriate and rather grisly topics at the supper table. They certainly haven't attracted any joiners to their small party.
Molly never thought she'd find a friend here. She had fought to be hopeful for herself when she made the decision to come here, but that hopefulness hadn't included any sort of belief that she'd not be absolutely lonely. But Sherlock is her friend, and she's so grateful to have one.
Theirs is a strange rapport. They argue almost constantly about research papers they've both read and their interpretations of the results. She constantly has to remind him of conversations they had the day before. He promptly forgets when he needs to argue his point again. She glares at him or flicks his shoulder when he says something unkind about the staff (she's noticed he avoids insulting the other patients), and when they reach a détente, she tries to amuse him with stories from her term at a forensic body farm. Ghoulish though Sherlock is, she still feels stabs of pride when she actually makes him laugh.
All in all, they are content with the arrangement.
Now, as she watches him rubbing two leaves together and sniffing the raw spots he'd exposed, she is reminded that he's still not particularly one for fanciful talk. But she wants to explain her sudden musing about the seasons.
"Places like Toronto, Canada have a real autumn. The leaves change color and the grass dies all at once. They get early snowfall, but at least it fits the aesthetic. Here in England, it's hard to tell whether it's spring or autumn. The trees are bare but there are blooming flowers and green grass." She plops down on the grass and plucks at a handful of grass. "I hate spring," she admits.
Sherlock actually looks up at her, looking somewhat interested. "You hate spring?"
Shrugging, she begins braiding three blades of grass together. "Yeah. It's just supposed to be this hopeful season of rebirth, but all I associate with it is heavy rain, soggy trainers, itchy Easter dresses and bonnets."
"That still is a rather strong emotion for a few, minor inconveniences," he muses.
"Everything is too bright or too cloudy. The temperature would be mild if it weren't for the humidity," she barrels on. She feels herself getting agitated, but she can't stop. "I still get cold in the spring. And it makes me think of things I should have done but didn't or failed at, and then my dad dy—" Molly cuts herself off. Trying to brush off Sherlock's full attention, which now rests solely on her, she gives him a forcedly affable shrug and clears her throat. "I didn't say it was rational." Heat stains her cheeks. She's never spoken so much at once to him, and to have it happen over something so barmy….
He moves away from the tree, his gathered leaves fluttering forlorn and forgotten to the ground. He comes to a stop next to her. He doesn't sit, only stands with his hands folded behind his back. The material of his sweats brushes her arm as she squints to look up at him. A strange corona of mist forms around his dark curls.
He frowns down at her in return before looking back out at the grounds. "I don't like it either. It's too cheerful." he says.
It's such a strange thing, coming from this particular man. He professes his derision for a wide swath of humanity and never does the expected thing, but here he is, telling her that the earth's position to the sun also irks him, and only to make her feel better; an odd show of solidarity.
She tries to smile her thanks, but she can't quite manage it. Not with the tears that are now dribbling into her lap. She ducks her head, hoping he won't see, but an unused tissue is suddenly held in front of her face. She takes it and shudders. Through the heavy tears, she notices that he's staring at her. His gaze is clinical, and she knows he is merely oblivious to the idea that she might want him to turn away.
"This happens," she croaks, momentarily losing all self-consciousness. "I'll think I'm having a good day, and then suddenly I'm crying and I can't stop. It turns into this vicious pileup of everything I hate about myself and everything that I was sad about before I became so entrenched in self-loathing."
He remains expressionless. "And what does your therapist tell you?"
"You mean how to cope?" The tissue is now a crumpled, sorry mess, and she twists it in her hands.
"Yes."
Molly takes a shaky breath. "She has me describe my feelings and then she asks me to identify the negative distortions that I pinned on, until I started to believe them."
"She's trying to heal you with positive thinking?" Sherlock asks, not looking impressed.
"No," Molly says, giving a small laugh. "Not heal me. Help me. And not positive thinking. Realistic thinking."
He hums thoughtfully. "Why on earth would you hate yourself?"
She shoots him a look. "Questions like that don't help, you know. My feelings are legitimate even if I should have no reason to feel this way."
Sherlock shakes his head impatiently. "I have a hard time understanding it, I'll admit. You're intelligent. You occasionally make funny jokes. Your reasoning is in fine form for a plebian, and you use your, er, 'powers for good.'"
"So I'd have the right to hate myself if I were a despotic murderer?" she asks.
"No—well, yes, probably you'd need to think about your life's choices—but I'm not saying your feelings aren't real. I'm telling you to acknowledge that there's plenty to like about yourself."
"Only what my doctors have been saying to me for a year," Molly points out. "It's easier said than done."
"Yes, well," Sherlock gingerly lowers himself to the ground, testing it for dampness before sitting fully. His arm touches Molly's shoulder periodically as he settles in, and then he leaves is just barely resting against her. "I honestly believe you will manage it soon, Molly Hooper. As I said, you're likeable and intelligent enough and the waste of a goodish brain is a travesty. Too many people hoard their bad ones."
Not wanting to be a watering pot any more, she tucks away the self-doubt. It will resurface. It always does, but he's helped her ground herself for the moment. So she smiles at his profile. "Good-ish brain? Ouch."
Sherlock tentatively reaches over and pats her on the head. He eschews physical demonstrations, so Molly's mouth splits into a wider grin even as she feels a bit like a golden retriever. Without thinking about it, she ducks further under his arm and wraps hers around his waist.
He stiffens at the contact, but he doesn't pull away. He tries to look miserable (though he continues to pat and very nearly stroke her hair), so Molly grants him reprieve shortly after. But not before she pecks his shoulder through his long-sleeved cotton shirt, made soft with many washings. Even the clinic's wholesale detergent smells good on him, and she allows herself a moment to think fondly about it before shaking her head at her own silly meanderings.
Molly never thought she'd learn much of what landed Sherlock to the clinic. But slowly, he does tell her, and only in bits and pieces.
He tells her about the racing thoughts in his brain, and how the heroin would slow him down and let him think, and how cocaine would keep him awake when he couldn't bear to sleep. It is the only time she's seen him have difficulty articulating himself. He has time slices of instability, and Molly knows that it is as much a part of his addiction as it is his genius.
When he's having better days and is feeling warmly towards her, he actually confides in her.
He tells her that he's there at the behest of his parents and brother.
He tells her that it's not the first time he's tried to get clean, but this time, he asked for a ride to the clinic from his mum. He looks embarrassedly pleased when he informs her that this is the longest he's actually stayed in a program since he started using. Molly gives him an encouraging smile and tells him she's proud of him. He waves it away with a snide comment that fails to hit home, and he still looks a bit flushed.
His parents visit on both Saturdays and Sundays of every weekend, without fail. Sherlock often is impatient with them, but the fact that he watches for their arrival is more telling, in Molly's eyes. She's often compared him to a cat in her mind, and his feigned disinterest only reinforces it.
He no longer tries to discourage her from joining them for lunch during each visit. It had been a mere twenty minutes into their first meeting that his father had casually asked her about the fecundity of her family. Appalled, Sherlock had appealed to her better nature and asked her to steer clear of his procreation-happy parents. Molly had merely grinned at him, and then had made sure to spend the next lunch detailing the hearty genetic stock from which she hails, just to see Sherlock squirm.
She doesn't mention to him that she loves his visitors, and the way they smile with genuine gladness when they see her. She certainly doesn't have that from anyone else. The fact that Sherlock actually drops the subject, when he can be like a dog with a bone if he wants to know something or shoot something down, makes her think he knows all the same.
She only meets his brother once, though he, too, visits on a weekly basis. When they do meet, she doesn't think she cares for him, though they only interact for a minute at most. Where Sherlock's fiery intelligence is impressive and alluring, and it sweeps her up, there's nothing of the sort about his brother. Mycroft Holmes' calm demeanor, a mask for what Sherlock freely admits is a far sharper intelligence, is only unnerving.
Mycroft follows a nurse into the recreation room five days before his brother's stint in rehab is set to end. Molly straightens in her chair, kicking at Sherlock's thigh as the two men make their way across the room. He looks up from the book he'd been reading (and loudly contradicting) and his face shutters as he closes the hardback cover loudly.
As the nurse introduces Molly to Mycroft, she glances between the two Holmes men. They look nothing alike, beyond the light eyes, hair color, and perhaps a shared height. Though Sherlock has lamented the hospital's forced casual apparel to her, she somehow doubts he sets much store by pinstripes, cufflinks, and waistcoats, either. And, she realizes, he just seems guileless compared to Mycroft. Which is a strange thing to think about Sherlock Holmes, but she realizes that it's true. He has his own, watchful moments, but they're nothing compared to the way his brother manages to be both incalculable and blatantly sneering at once.
She doesn't feel it's directed at her, necessarily, but she still feels stripped and judged.
Sherlock stands wordlessly and hands off the book to her, a sign that she should stay there. She gives him a smile, doubting that he actually sees it when he shuffles out of the room without a backward glance.
But when Sherlock doesn't return in time for dinner, Molly grows worried. She tucks a bun into a paper towel (food is expressly forbidden outside of the cafeteria, so naturally, smuggling has become a considerable skill for nearly all of the patients) and goes in search of him.
She finds him pacing around in his bedroom.
Sherlock had gone through a series of roommates in his first few weeks as an inpatient before he finally suggested to the clinic that they might save themselves the effort and give him a single-occupancy room. Though Molly hasn't said anything to him, she worries that even that small isolation isn't good for him.
"What's the matter?" she asks him, stopping in the doorway.
His shadow moves across the wall and ceiling, made large as he paces in front of the small, bolted-down table lamp. "Go away," he mutters, not looking at her.
"Are you okay?"
"For heaven's sake, Molly, what part of 'Go Away' can't you understand?" He doesn't raise his voice, and that alone makes her want to scamper to the relative safety of her own room. She's known that he has a caustic tongue when provoked, but he's never aimed it at her before.
Until now.
And though in the past, she's been prone to anxiety and hurt when someone gets angry with her, she just sucks in a bracing breath. "You didn't come to supper. I wanted to make sure you're alright. I'm not doing anything wrong."
"Fine," he grits out. "I'm sorry. Now please leave."
"Here," she thrusts out the bun. "You'll be hungry."
"I'm not," he corrects her, keeping his back to her as he shuffles his feet impatiently and clenches and unclenches his hands. Over and over again, though he never moves from his spot now that she's arrived.
"Take it in case you change your mind. Please," she adds.
Cursing, Sherlock whirls around and moves over to her in two long strides. He grabs the bun and is then moving back away from her, setting the poor piece of bread down on the bedside table with no care.
He once again turns his back to her. His limbs are restive. "Are you still here?" he asks, and now he sounds bored of it. Bored of her.
She breathes slowly. No use getting upset. "Yes, I'm still here. Please, Sherlock, tell me what you're upset about?"
Laughing, he turns around yet again. "I'm not upset. I'm merely thinking about complicated things that would only bore you. So if you'll excuse me…."
He tries to close the door in her face, but she darts into the room under his arm. "No."
His eyes narrow. "What?"
"I don't believe you," she insists. "Something is wrong and you're having a hard time. You can trust me with it."
"There's nothing to entrust to you," he says again, but she notices the slightest hesitation this time.
"You're lying."
"Always. It's a calling," he says frankly.
"No, it's not. You're a terrible liar. Just because you've managed to hoodwink a few of the staff doesn't mean you've fooled us all. Try again."
Sherlock just glares at her and resumes the pacing he'd been doing when she arrived, so she decides to wait him out. She moves to the spare bed, unmade with a folded sheet set, coverlet, and pillow resting on top. She sits next to it and pulls the pillow into her lap, giving herself something to hold.
Sherlock seems to think that if he ignores her, she'll go away, but he's not considering her line of work. She's participated in operations that have lasted twelve hours in the past. This is nothing.
When he realizes that he can't bore her away, he decides to try to make her uncomfortable. First, he only speaks in some dialect from which she can't even glean root words. It backfires, though, because she is genuinely fascinated and leans in to try to decipher some of his words.
He starts making strange noises. Tuvan throat singing, as far she can tell. She claps when he finishes his song. Shaking his head, he actually growls.
Next, he picks up a book and reads as he paces, but still, she remains.
Finally, Sherlock shoots another acidic glare in her direction and moves over to the small chest of drawers, ripping out a t-shirt and pair of flannel pajama pants.
"You're interrupting my usual nightly routine," he informs her as he strips off his shirt and pulls on the new one. Shucking his sweats, he balls them up and she almost thinks he's going to drape them over her head in retaliation
"How am I doing that?" Molly asks, unbothered as she stretches out across the mattress.
"I normally sleep in the nude."
"By all means," she waves at him to continue.
Shaking his head, he turns to the sink and hastily cleans his teeth before trudging over to his bed. "I said you ruined it. I won't be able to enjoy my allotted naked time since you're agitating me."
"And with those words, you've just summed up my entire sexual history," she mumbles. The joke falls flat.
Sherlock tosses and turns before sending her one more pointed glare as he reaches over to shut off his lamp.
Molly knows she should go back to her room soon. They'll do their nightly census, and even though she and Sherlock are consenting adults, two patients in the hospital's care shacking up might be frowned on in the eyes of the medical professionals. It might be seen as "impulsive" and "symptomatic".
Still, she waits.
And finally, Sherlock starts talking.
"It will have been ninety-four days since I last touched a needle when I get out of here," he says. His voice is hoarse, with nerves, with emotion, with tiredness? She can't tell. Quietly, she listens.
"My brother has little experience with addiction. Well, to amend that, he has no experience with any addiction other than what he's witnessed of mine." The sheets rustle as he shifts a little. "And when I leave here, I am to stay with him. My parents tried to convince him to that I'd be better with them, since they're retired. But Mycroft won't hear of it."
Molly clears her throat. "What arrangements is he making to ensure that you'll be cared for when you go with him?"
"I'm a full-grown adult," Sherlock says, sounding a bit impatient.
"You know what I mean."
He sighs. "Yes. And you've clearly already figured it out. I leave here, and I go to a brother whom I know does not have the understanding to help facilitate keeping me clean. He works seventy-hour weeks and lives in a huge monstrosity of a house by himself. The cleaning staff are the neither-seen-nor-heard types.
"I can't help thinking that, perhaps if I stay with my parents initially and then stay with Mycroft when I am better adjusted, I won't be as nervous. But not right out of this place. Because this is a safety net. Out there is a free-fall."
Frowning at the shadowed ceiling, she asks, "Why is he so adamant?"
"Because he thinks he knows everything."
"Why else?"
Sherlock breathes deeply. "Because I hurt my parents immensely when they tried to intervene before my first stint in rehab. The things I said…."
"They've forgiven you," Molly says flatly, wanting to brook no argument.
He makes a small sound, almost as if asking her to reaffirm. But then he says, just as flatly, "That doesn't mean they can't be hurt again."
"They obviously trust you. You have personal responsibility to try your hardest to be kind to them, no matter what. Even, though I don't believe it'll happen, if you relapse. But I see proof that they're not half as worried as you are each time they come to see you and pointedly comment on my childbearing hips. You're not a lost cause to them. Far from it."
She pauses, but he doesn't respond, not even to grumble at his parents' attempts to marry him off to the quiet, sad woman to whom he's attached himself.
"Drugs change people. You were a victim of that, even if you could have done things differently. And now you feel remorse for what happened." She rolls onto her side, peering in the direction of his bed, trying to make out his form. "Forgive yourself, since your mum and dad certainly have."
"And how will this help me with Mycroft?"
"Stop being the little brother and be a person who is thinking about his own health and safety. Tell Mycroft that you believe it is to your benefit that you go to your parents' first, and that he is welcome to communicate with them however much he wants, to ascertain that you are treating them and yourself well."
"He's not wrong to be worried," Sherlock says, and she can hear him rolling over, too. "I could relapse with my parents just as easily as I could with him."
"You're an addict," Molly agrees, sitting up. She wishes she could see him, but she suspects the dark is what is giving him the courage to speak to her, so she only dangles her feet off of the bed. "You'll be at risk of relapsing wherever you are. But the question is where you'll have more good days than bad, especially when you're away from this safety net?"
"I know all this. It's convincing him that is the issue."
"Why does he have a hard time understanding what it's like?"
"He thinks I should achieve mind over matter and be done of it."
"That's a shame. For him and you. You understand your triggers. He might think he does, intellectually, but he's not had to fight anything like it."
"And you have?" Sherlock asks, sounding genuinely curious.
"I've not, but my mother did. She was an alcoholic. She died when I was young. Alcohol poisoning. It doesn't mean she didn't love me. She couldn't find the tools or help to overcome it."
"And what if I only think I have those tools? Even without the drug festering away in me, I can feel it humming. I feel strong enough not to bow to it in here. But what about out there?"
Molly creeps off of the bed, biting off a curse as she slides a little in her socks. Apparently, he can see her better than she him, because he darts a hand out to her waist, helping to stabilize her. She recovers quickly and he withdraws far sooner than she'd like, she can admit to herself.
Muttering about how much she misses shoes (a small snort issues from Sherlock), she sits down on the floor, resting her back against the edge of his mattress. She isn't sure whether she's imagining his fingers playing with the very ends of her hair, but she determinedly acts nonchalant.
"You have the tools," she says, picking up where they'd left off. "If you are in danger of relapsing, you call a doctor or your parents or… or me, if you want. I'm not the model of mental health, but I care about you. So you can call me."
He doesn't respond. She wonders if he knows how. "But this is all conjecture. You'll have bad moments, but maybe they won't be as bad as you're picturing. People want to help you, even your brother. And the rest of the time? You distract yourself. You have your cases and experiments. Let them help you. Have you tried what Glenna suggested? Guided imagery?"
"That's not going to solve anything," he huffs.
"Why not? You value your intellect above everything else. Why wouldn't you use it to save yourself?"
"So what are you suggesting," he asks, voice dripping with skepticism, "I imagine myself on a beach and the cravings for smack will go away?"
"You know that's not what I mean," Molly sighs. "Glenna mentioned that it could calm you when you are feeling like you might backslide."
"So what do you suggest I do?"
"Your brain is encyclopedic. Do you ever feel like there's too much in there?"
"Constantly. Hello, Molly. Heroin Addict speaking."
She brushes aside the sarcasm. "So, why don't you work on creating a card catalog index for everything? When you start to feel vulnerable, you can work on building some sort of mental repository to hold and organize what you know." She brightens as she thinks about it more. "Like, a drawer for blood spatter patterns, a drawer for hair shaft morphology, a drawer for chemical reactions and certain habits, and so on? And when you have a framework up, you start sorting, adding on as needed."
Sherlock doesn't say a word, but she can almost hear him thinking. "I don't think a series of drawers would cut it," he finally says.
"Fine, a storage shed for each subject."
He makes a high-pitched, dismissive sound, and Molly rolls her eyes. "A palace then, Sherlock. Build yourself a Mind Palace."
"That is far more reasonable," he says primly. And then he doesn't talk for the rest of the night.
Eventually, Molly stands, stiff from her time on the floor. She ducks down and kisses him on the forehead. Though he doesn't issue a farewell, she feels his fingers brush against her wrist in acknowledgment as she presses her lips to his face. Breaking away, she moves out of the room.
By some miracle, the staff hasn't yet gotten around to doing their census, as far as she can tell. There certainly aren't any blaring sirens and search lights trying to find the missing Molly Hooper.
She gets back to her room without incident and completes her own, nightly routine. As she drops into sleep, she is busy thinking back on the strange vulnerability of Sherlock Holmes, and wonders for the first time if he'll actually let himself need her when all is said and done. The thirty-two days that they've been friends might well be nothing to a man who recently asked her if she could recall his NHS number for him.
Worrying will accomplish nothing, she knows. But that doesn't stop her from doing it.
The day he leaves, he obviously doesn't want it to be some embarrassing production of emotion. She and two staff members, Glenna and his primary therapist, are the only ones to see him off. His dad waves at her cheerfully as he throws an arm around his thin son, who actually allows the contact very briefly as he is ushered around to the passenger side of the car.
They climb in and sit there with the engine running for a moment, before Sherlock's door opens once more and he climbs out, moving back around the car while he squints at her.
He stops in front of her, and they look at each other quietly. Finally, he gives a brief, final nod. "Take care of yourself, Molly," he murmurs. And then he leans down and gently kisses her cheek, lingering there for several beats before withdrawing. She only opens her eyes when she hears the car door close again. He and his father putter off, soon disappearing around a bend.
Though she felt that crushing loneliness starting to set in the moment she woke that morning, she managed to hide it in front of him. She'd known this day would come, known his company was temporary when he told her he was on day fifty-eight out of ninety. She was nothing but proud when, after supper the night before, he confirmed to her that he felt ready to leave. So she smiled and was genuinely excited for him. She keeps that smile it in place until his father's car is out of sight.
And there it is. She has just said goodbye to her only friend here, and one of the dearest friends she's ever had. She somehow doesn't cry as she shuffles back into the clinic, escorted by Sherlock's support team. She doesn't make eye contact with anyone when she hands over her trainers to a waiting orderly. No one waylays her as she moves back towards her room, though she is certain she looks rather sickly with her face made blotchy from suppressed tears. She steps into the room and closes the door, leaning back against its wood while she tries to calm herself.
She'd been no stranger to loneliness before Sherlock Holmes burst into her life with sloshed coffee and fast words. Perhaps, she admits, she'd been more willing to let herself get swept along because she'd only just realized, scant days before their meeting, just how dangerously isolated she had become.
She knows even this small reliance on him might end up hurting her. And as of now, he has a long road ahead of him before he can focus on anyone but himself. Not to mention, he is Sherlock. She doesn't delude herself into thinking he's a changed man from the one who couldn't actually remember his own therapist's name for the entirety of his rehabilitation.
He is wild and distracted and hurting. He still lashes out occasionally. He still sneers when the very suggestion of needing friends is broached. But could he someday give her some of the support that she has promised to give him?
"If he can't, then you don't need him," she reminds herself out loud. She has other friends who want to be there for her, even after she'd withdrawn so much from them. And that is what matters. If Sherlock does nothing else for her, he's reminded her that she is someone whom others can like, and at a time when she desperately needed the aide-mémoire.
She has given a lot of thought to her own progress over the last several days. The way she feels—less tired, less sore, and, since she'd somehow felt all of it at once, neither numb nor nearly as sad or self-loathing—is evidence to her that her stay here has saved her life. Though it'll take a couple of weeks to arrange and to build up her strength, she's decided to move to outpatient care soon. Her doctor and therapist have both said that they think she is almost ready, and six weeks will have been an awfully long time away from her home.
It scares her, just as it scared Sherlock when he was faced with the prospect of leaving. It will be hard. In some ways, harder than it was when she let herself be in denial about the extent of her depression. But at least she now feels like she'll be able to try, which is far more than she could say the day she came to this hospital. Planning had not been something she could even manage, and now she is cautiously making little goals for herself. She might even get a dog or a cat. The company and uncomplicated love of something soft and warm are never bad things.
Smiling at the thought, she moves away from the door, intending to curl up with her book. She frowns when something bright catches her eye, poking out from under her pillow. She moves it aside to find a garish pair of fluffy, fuzzy socks. They're acid green and have a pattern of what might be brown cows or possibly Quidditch snitches on them. They're truly hideous.
She loves them.
But what has her grinning the hardest are the textured, rubber grips on the bottoms of the socks.
There's a note attached to them, and Sherlock's messy handwriting greets her. She hugs the socks to her chest as she reads:
I told my father to pick out some nice, sedate slipper-socks. Apparently he is colorblind. And any-semblance-of-taste-blind. I wish I had not willfully forgotten his bowtie collection before I asked.
You're a disaster on the lino. Wear these as insurance. I am in need of my own medical expert to consult on some of the forensic cases that come my way. It will take a lot of precious case time if I am forced to assist a one-legged pathologist so she doesn't die in the shower or help her with her crutches as she hobbles laboriously up staircases. Also, I refuse to sign plaster casts. I believe you'll agree that this is better all around.
I will need full access to Barts' facilities: lab, morgue, and body donations. I'll arrange clearance this week and confirm with you on Saturday next when I come by to discuss.
-SH