"-And in my way!" His hand reaches out of its own accord and in the 3.62 seconds it takes for 25 year old Molly Hooper to fall into the shelving of St. Bart's, Sherlock Holmes knows that he has done wrong. The sobering effect of watching blood trickle out of the wound on her head is astounding, even as she drags herself back to her feet and asks if he is okay. She knows he is not, even when he was higher than a kite, Sherlock knew intelligence and her brilliance.
He watches, completely dumbstruck, as she teeters into the office and bandages herself up. It's a small wound, hitting her right above the eyebrow, and her patch work isn't as neat as her work on the corpses out in the morgue.
As color comes back to her face, she looks up from her desk and gives him the barest of smiles and says the one sentence that would condemn him forever.
"What do you need?"
It has been 3 months, 24 days, 16 hours, 19 minutes and 48 seconds since Sherlock Holmes stopped taking recreational drugs. Though it is grueling, he does not let himself slip, always spotting the miniscule scar before leaving the morgue. Because as low has he had been, he'd never thought that he'd hurt someone who clearly would never strike at him. He'd bitten the proverbial hand that fed him.
Molly, who gave him fawning looks and wistful sighs and could crave the content of a cadaver's stomach.
He fills in his clothes more now, a side effect of no longer dosing himself on opium and a myriad of cocktail drugs, it is a dull to note but Molly seems pleased that he looks healthier in her opinion. The iron rock where his heart used to be thuds once as she smiles at him over a body and stutters out that he looks nice.
He fakes a smile, as he always does, and feeds her a line to open up the refrigerated hatches for the specific body he's looking for.
In that moment, Sherlock Holmes wants to think that he has stopped hurting Molly Hooper
"I'd be an atrocious flatmate, Stamford, don't be absurd."
"What do you mean 'gay'? We're together?" Molly sputters and it grates him slightly. How can she not see what is obviously right in front of her? He'd already tried to put the incident behind him and focus on the work. But no, they must circle back to social conversation.
"And Domestic life must suit you, Molly. You put on three pounds since I've seen you last." He adjusts the knobs on the microscopes, focusing on the results that will undoubtedly yield the results he's looking for."
"Two and a half."
He shrugs and shakes his head a bit. "Mm. Three."
"Sherlock-" He recognizes John's warning voice but does not heed it, choosing to focus on the samples. Why must everyone be so mind-numbingly simple?
"He's not gay! Why'd you have to spoil-? He's not." Molly stumbles and her hands twitch at their sides. A nervous tick to twist and wring her hands that she's struggled with.
"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock scoffs, glancing at John from the corner of his eye as the Army Doctor shifts uneasily.
"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair." John is defensive, defensive for what? Defensive for Molly. His Molly.
"You wash your hair. There's a difference." There were obvious signs, if anyone had cared to look. But did they? No. They never did. Tedious. "No, no. Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear.
"His underwear?" Molly scoffs.
"Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here and I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain." Because no one can hurt Molly. No one. She does not deserve the pain. He feels a bit of pride in himself, but it's dashed as she flees from the room. The doors swinging behind her and his rusted lungs heave at her parting. The machine in him whirls as it tries to process what has happened.
"Charming. Well done." John sighs. Sherlock does not understand.
"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"
"Kinder? No. No, Sherlock. That wasn't kind"
And just like that, he knows he's hurt her again.
"Sherlock, have a drink."
He should have taken Gibbly's advice and had the damn drink.
"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always…" Her too small lips tremble and tears sit at the edges of her large eyes. Iron creaks and thuds in his chest nervously. He's not sure if he should leave, but he's not sure that there's another option. Sherlock blinks as he backs away slightly, but then he sees it. The tiny little scar right above her left eye, forever reminding him of his misdeeds. Still his feet carry him backwards and he turns. But the sharpest and well oiled organ of his body, his mind, screeches to a halt and issues it's commands.
No! No! This is Molly! You have hurt her! Fix this.
"I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper"
But it fills the room, the breathy sigh of release comes from his pocket as his lips leave her cheek. With regret, he watches her leave as he turns his attention back to the puzzle that he'd been given in the form of Irene Adler.
It is then that he realizes that he has not stopped hurting Molly Hooper, and that there is a high possibility that he never will.
"I don't count."
She was wrong, obviously, as he waited in the dim lighting of the lab. She was an infallible safety net. Molly combines the rational portion of his brain with sentiment, and he's not sure when the two started operating in the same capacity. But it doesn't bother him and Sherlock just accepts it as his truth.
The door swings open, and for once, Molly doesn't spot him immediately. The gravity of the up coming events settled in stomach, churning up the rust that lay there, and he feels like he might be ill. But there isn't time, not now, not when she has to know.
"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay." She jumps at the sound of his voice and he loathes himself for a minute that he can never hide anything from her. She looks so wounded at the sound of his voice, he's hurt her again.
"Tell me what's wrong." She asks gently, cautiously drawing closer to him.
"Molly, I think I'm going to die." It's a stone on his chest and he feels like it's crushing him as the words have finally come out into the open.
"What do you need?" She asks the fatal question, her voice wavering slightly. Unsure and afraid of what exactly he's going to ask from her. And he can't fault her for that, though her unwavering trust in him is being tested down to the very core.
"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"
"What do you need?" It is firmer and leaves no room for argument.
"You."
"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper."
He doesn't want to talk about how the cold doesn't bother him as much as the chill in his heart. Because logically he knew that Molly would not be his forever. He doesn't want to think about how he almost jogged the first few steps away from her, knowing that if he was closer to her, he'd take her for himself and ruin her forever.
That he'd reach out to touch her cheek, watch her blush and maybe smile for him. Kiss her cheek, her jaw, her too small lips.
His mind bites back at him that sentiment is found on the losing side. That this precisely why they didn't work in that part of society. And yet the feel of her cheek still lingers on his lips.
But in the thrill of the chase, in the moment of celebration, he forgets. Sherlock Holmes forgets the seventh glass of champagne that should be present upon the entry and arrival of Molly Hooper with her fiance in tow.
He shouldn't have been surprised that she brought him, choosing to leave the situation, rather than making it worse.
Because Sherlock Holmes needs to know that Molly Hooper isn't hurting anymore.
Tom is a good man, despite not meeting Molly on an intellectual level. He is good for Molly, but that doesn't mean that he is good enough for her. But he doesn't disturb them at Mary and John's wedding. Though he wasn't certain, Sherlock was pretty sure stabbing someone with a for was well on the way to wedded bliss.
Though Sherlock was anything but a good man, at least he wasn't the one hurting Molly.
"Stop it, just stop."
In the dark of the hospital room, a tentative hand takes his. Sherlock knows exactly who it is and tries to open his eyes, but the morphine dose is a little too high for him to do much of anything.
"Sherlock, I- I'm so sorry." Molly says softly in the silence in the room and he wants to ask exactly what she's sorry. What has Molly possibly done that warrants an apology to him?
"I- I can't believe that the last thing I ever did to you was hit you. I'm so sorry." Her head lays on their intertwined hands and he can feel her tears on his skin. "You deserved it, I know you did. But- But if that was the last moment, the very last one that we had together." She doesn't continue to speak, only holding his hand and stroking it affectionately with her thumb.
"I need you to be okay, Sherlock. That's all that I've ever needed from you." She says before softly kissing his head and he hears the door click closed right as his eyes finally decide to open.
"Did you miss me?"
There is a frantic pace about him as he runs up the 27 steps to Molly's flat, running over the 30 feet of carpet before sliding in front of the door and knocking on it furiously.
"Molly. Open the door." His voice comes out much harsher than he intended, but it has the desired effect of the door being wrenched open.
Standing in her flannels, Molly Hooper is obviously distressed. "I- I, he was dead, Sherlock. He shot himself in the head." Molly cries, tears streaming down her face as he ushers them both inside. "It doesn't make any sense. He's going to come after you again." She's visibly shaking and he holds her at arms length, hands firmly on her wrists.
"Molly, Molly, look at me. Everything is going to be fine." It's a lie, they both know it, but Molly rapidly nods her head and wipes her tears on the back of her sleeves.
He doesn't know what he can do for her, for her to stop hurting and to be safe.
"What do you need?"
Molly freezes and looks up at him, her bottom lip quivers and fresh tears pour over her lashes. A choked sob releases from her throat as she launches herself into his arms, wrapping hers around him and burying herself deep into his coat.
"You."