Notes: I do not own "Sherlock". All the rights belong to BBC.
"Forgive me. It wouldn't be fair to give you false hope and promise something that doesn't exist and never will. I'm so sorry that it happened like this… If I can do anything, anything at all, just tell –"
The absence of response, stifling silence, the sound of fading steps. Emptiness. What is there left to do for her? To embrace herself, lower her face, close her eyes and slowly slide down, feeling the cold of the kitchen door.
To fall deeply and irrevocably.
Nobody cares, anyway.
The world still exists outside the window. That's a pity.
She finally raises her head from the pillow. The tea is bitter. A new packet would be nice but what's the difference? The old will do. Molly jumps when the phone suddenly rings. At least somewhere they need her. At work. A little cold water to refresh her face. The wrinkled clothes won't be seen under the doctor's overall. She just smoothes her hair down and puts on a smile. Ready.
"Hello, indifferent reality. Would you be so kind to accept me again?"
"Sherlock Holmes's at the door. There was a murder under very strange circumstances. The body has just arrived. Will you take care of it?"
"Could someone do it instead of me?"
Molly is lucky to hide before the familiar coat turns up in the ward. The best way not to remember is to avoid seeing. She stays in a store room till it's dark outside. Home. She has to go home. It's no surprise Molly skulks through back streets, catching shadows. But what for? Nobody is there for her.
It's high time she got used to it.
The bus is overcrowded, almost air-deprived. That's it. On foot. A slight trembling in the pocket. She presses "Reject". "Sorry, John. You are my true friend but you will be always a reminder. Need to forget."
Molly goes round a puddle and suddenly finds herself opposite a newsstand. A fresh issue of a magazine with a glossy cover, HIS smiling face and Iren Adler's firm grasp of the man's hand.
"Grandiose fraud exposed by the genius of private investigation"
Her soul rips apart. It's no good to be happy for him and curse the torturer at the same time.
Molly buys the magazine, hand shaking, touches the paper cheek and throws the issue in the nearest bin.
The other half has won.
There's nothing here to hope for anymore.
Molly Hooper and a pub? The two are antonyms actually. Let it be. They say it's fun. She doesn't care much. As long as pubs are outside his universe it's ok.
Wisky is on the menue. The hot liquid burns her throat, not helping to get drunk, no matter how desperately she needs oblivion.
Noise envelopes every single cell of the worn-out body. The clock chimes in a distinctive bang, cutting out the notes of an inane song playing. It's no use. She's still alone. In a crowd. It's no news. Big deal!
The experiment is over. Molly pays off and leaves. She needs to go somewhere. A final destination is irrelevant. Just to go away from here as far as it's even possible.
The London Bridge. It's so beautiful and perhaps also lonely.
"Don't be sad. I'm here."
She climbs the concrete fence, stretches out her hands high above the city. Isn't it good to feell free again?
"Are you scared? Don't be! Of course, you are not falling! And I won't fall. I'll fly. I surely can. No lie!"
A gentle hand of wind strokes her hair. It'so nice, so peaceful. But silence give way to noise too soon: there's someone's cry, a thump against the pavement and complete darkness.
Reverberating with loud voices, her head feels like leed. Having been brought to his bedroom is such irony. Perhaps, this was the only way for Molly Hooper to get here.
"What for, John? There are plenty of other places in the city. Why have you brought me here? What did I do to deserve this?"
"How can one even come up with the idea like that? asks the detective feverishly, his deep voice quivering with fake worry.
"She was going to fly. I barely made it in time" grumbles John.
There's a banging sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Molly has only a couple of minutes to run away or to save herself? It appears quickness isn't her strong point. Something must be done about it as soon as the room stops moving.
It's too late. He is already here, extremely mad at her.
"Are you sick of being alive? he's bursting with emotions. They aren't for you, Sherlock. Don't you remember?
Her silly heart struggles to reach him, breaks through the chest, gets hurt, trying to avoid a stinging touch of sharp ribs but still won't give up. It has to be stopped, prevented from further happening with a sole purpose of protection. Molly mutters under her breath, hands clasped on her chest.
"Sorry, poor thing. You aren't welcome here."
"Molly, do you hear me? his hand squeezes her shoulder in attempt to draw attention. What for? She'd do anything for him...
His touch is burning. There'll be a scar left on the spot. One more scar. But who counts them?
"Do you even realise how you scared us? What if...? What would we...What would I? –" such false care hurts the most. It's enough. Molly feels a flush of anger which unexpectedly gives her strength.
"If you are so worried about my well-being, why was it John who rescued me on the bridge? " one phrase is enough to make him freeze for a minute.
It's not much time, but it'll do to leave the stifling quarters of the hostile house to never come back again no matter what happens next.