Sherlock spent his life in cold. He wrapped himself in ice and quiet and alone. He protected himself with chains of harsh and cruel words. He did not deserve help. He did not desire help. He had reduced and receded and retracted until all that he had left was the shell of sacrifice. He was all used up. There was no more left.
Perhaps this is why, on a sunny London afternoon, he sat in Baker Street alone. Perhaps this is why, after a run of the mill case, he flipped the bottle into the air with consideration. Perhaps this is why his door was locked. He was tired of cold. He was tired of hollow. He was tired of heavy.
They rattled as they flew through the air, bottle flipping between up and down before it landed in his outstretched hand. He'd been like this for hours, contemplating. Wondering. This was always the way he figured he'd do it. Pills were easily accessible, not messy, not cumbersome. He heard a great many things about the effects of them. Of course, no one he'd talked to had survived dying so, who were they to judge?
He'd already thought through the list of everyone. They would be sad, but they'd moved on before. Death was a thing of passing. It was a pain that healed. He had seen that once before. And sometimes, bad men were meant to be killed. He was honestly just keeping someone else from the trouble. God knows they'd tried.
He wondered briefly if there was a God. The evidence of his eyes said no. The wondering was only natural, he knew. A result of his considerations, of the seriousness of his thoughts. Doubt slid away, replaced by the whistling emptiness in his bones. The unsurmountable exhaustion creeping along his skin and trying to drag him down to whatever depths of hell his mind could dream up.
Deficient, Sherlock.
An East Wind is coming.
It's going to get you.
Bad little boy.
The thoughts crowd, too loud in his empty palace. Empty rooms echo, crowd without the comfort of human touch. The pill bottle clatters against his wooden floors. It is as he is leaned over to pick it up that his door opens, Molly stepping in quietly, clearly not seeing him bent before her. He pauses, stills, watches. He'd forgotten she had a key.
When she faces him, it is at first with a smile. She's got bags on both arms, clearly heavy. Her cheeks are flushed. His stomach sinks. He knows her happiness is only as long lasting as it takes her to see what's in his hand. He can't stop it. He's always prided himself on complete control over his body, but he can't make his fingers unclench from the bottle, can't make his legs stand back up. It's all too much effort.
He's right. It takes a few moments of confusion as she notices the pill bottle. She knows he doesn't have any medicine. She looks around his room and notices the drawn blinds, the hazy gray of the room as sun fought its way through. She sees his disheveled hair and sunken eyes. Fear lights her face for the seconds it takes her to cross the room and yank the pill from his hand, hear the shake of the pills. Somehow, she knows for certain. Somehow, she's recognized what no one else has. Again. You look sad, when you think he can't see.
She's crying almost immediately, pulling him up. It's been a while since he's been embraced. He can hear her sniffles, hear her sobs. Her tears are warm against his shirt. Her hands bypass the thick woolly fabric of his robe, arms crossing over his back to hold him tightly. The fog of exhaustion lifts and he realizes…
Molly never moved on from him dying. She'd never had to. The closest she came to moving on from his absence was a pale knock off.
Molly has seen him for who he is. Always.
Molly has accepted him. Always.
It's not enough to light the coldness in his chest. It's not enough to fill the hollow space. It's not enough to quell the exhaustion in his limbs. It's just a start. Just a whisper against the tide of accusations and bereavements. It's enough.
"Sherlock Holmes, don't you ever… Don't you realize?" She can't form a thought through her wheezing. "God, I love you! Don't you ever do this to me, I can't…" She's breathing too heavy, her face red and splotchy from crying. He doesn't comfort her. He doesn't know how. He simply holds her against him, running his hands through her hair.
"I know that look. I've seen it before. My dad…" He'd never asked what her dad had died of. He'd assumed it was a terminal illness. He wasn't surprised to learn otherwise. "He looked like that right before he…" She sobs again, squeezes him tighter. "Don't you ever do that. Don't you ever." She's whispering it over and over again into his shirt, her tears still burning his chest.
She pulls back for a moment, stares him hard in the eyes. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Do not make me live in a world without you." Her kiss is searing, burning away the last of his apathy for the day. It's powerful, every ounce of meaning behind it an inferno on his skin.
It's not enough for a lifetime. It's not enough to guarantee forever, but it's enough for today.
She's enough for today.