"Hi, Sherlock."

Sherlock stilled in his bed, but didn't bother opening his eyes when he heard the knock at the door. He knew perfectly well who it was from her light knock and the slight shuffle in her step.

He tried to clear his throat without her noticing.

"Come in."

"I just…I just wanted to make sure you're okay." She nervously laughed. "Just wanted to see it with my own eyes, you know. I'm still mad at you," she added on, as if it were an afterthought. "But John told me you flat-lined, and well, I guess someone's almost death does bring out one's priorities, doesn't it?"

She stood at the doorway awkwardly. He could imagine her perfectly even with his eyes shut. Hair in a side ponytail, still in her lab coat because she had rushed over (he felt a sudden wave of giddiness), sensible flats, her hands wringing nervously together. If it weren't for that telltale sign, he might still believe her completely immune to him. Thank god.

"Well, I can see you're fine. I'll be going now." The door creaked open.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Molly!" Her name slipped out his mouth with a little more vehemence and desperation than he had intended. She walked toward him again quickly, her coat fluttering a bit, and she was by his bedside in an instant.

"What is it? Are you okay? Do you need the nurse?" She looked over him nervously, not with the eyes of a woman, but with the eyes of doctor, dispassionate. He hated that.

"Why'd you break up with Tom?" The words came out his mouth, unbidden. (He always lost control around her). He then looked out at the window, pretending he didn't care about the answer. He was just asking because he was curious. That's all.

"He just…we just didn't see eye to eye, that's all." She muttered after a few seconds of careful consideration.

"Was it because of me?" He couldn't help pushing, already knowing the answer yet wanting to hear it come out of her mouth.

He could hear her shift uncomfortably in her seat, and after a few moments of silence, he turned his head to face her. Her eyes shifted just left of his head, unable to meet his gaze.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. I'm over you, remember?"

He could vaguely hear a dull thud. His heart, he thought, why was it doing that? One's heart couldn't literally break. It simply wasn't physically possible. So why did it hurt?

He turned his head away from her again, not wanting to see her reticent expression, not wanting to let her see that he was hurt by her words.

(She had always had the uncanny ability to see right through him when others couldn't.)

"No, you're not," he spit out, unsure if he was convincing her or himself.

Her breath came out shakily.

He could feel firm, cold (why were her fingers cold? She should be warm. Warm, warm Molly Hooper) fingertips grasp his chin, forcing him to face her, to look into her eyes. The color of milk chocolate, he could remember thinking. He hadn't noticed that before.

"No, I'm not." Molly's voice quavered. "But I'm sick of being left behind, and I'm sick of being weak and pitiful and poor little Molly Hooper who will never find someone to love her and I just wanted to be loved. I just wanted to be loved." Her voice became rough, raspy. "Why did it have to be you? Why is it always you?"

She broke out in tears, great heaving sobs that shook her whole body and left her trembling with the admission, with the admission that should have never left her lips, the one she had meant to bury two years ago because she couldn't be Molly Hooper anymore. She couldn't she couldn't she couldn't. She buried her head in her arms, unwilling to allow him to see her tears. Her heart felt raw.

Sherlock pulled out the IV drip from his arm, hesitated, then gently laid his hand on her head, drowning his pale skin in her chestnut locks, fusing his pain with hers.

"You are loved," he finally said, his voice quivering the slightest bit too. (She made him strong. She made him weak. His foundation and his pressure point at the same time.)

She lifted her head, and he wiped away her tears.

"You've always mattered the most to me, Molly Hooper. Maybe you're just my type."

She sniffled, grasping his hand in her own, resting it on her cheek.

"Maybe I'm just your type," she whispered back, a feeling of catharsis sweeping over her. "Maybe I'm just your type."