I'm suffering from a bit of writersblock on my other story so I wrote this.
Molly Hooper.
With the ordinary life, the ordinary appearance and the not-so-ordinary job.
Without the family and with the few friends.
Every day she was reminded of the demons of her past.
The passing of her mother. The abuse of her father. Her demons.
She'd thought she'd beat her demons a long time ago.
Oh how wrong she'd been.
The memories stayed. The feeling of fear, of pain and loneliness. They never fully went away.
Today was one of those days. It was Christmas, and for Molly, Christmas never was a time of joy.
Her mother past the day before Christmas, the abuse started the day after, on boxing day. Sherlock had humiliated her on a Christmas party and she'd met Jim on a New Year's one. All by all, December was not the best month for Molly, but quite the opposite.
With Sherlock dodging exile last year, the annual Baker Street Christmas party was back in business once more. She was invited, of course, but with her demons showing their ugly faces, she wasn't in a party mood.
She sent a text to John.
I'm not coming to the party. I'm not feeling well. xM
A small reply came minutes later. John had texted back his sympathies.
Kind John. He was nice, always standing up for her against Sherlock when needed.
Sherlock.
Their relationship hadn't changed much.
Molly didn't dwell on it. He was the one who mattered the most.
At that moment.
The one who mattered, not the one who matters.
She was okay with that, okay with helping him when he needed it.
So now Molly was curled up on the couch, watching 'A Nightmare before Christmas'.
Toby was curled up beside her, oblivious to the fact that his owner was silently crying next to him.
Molly buried her face in her hands and let the tears fall.
She cried for her mother.
Molly's mother had been beautiful, with chestnut hair and honey brown eyes. She was always kind, always helpful.
Molly took after her in that way.
Her death had been an accident.
A driver lost control over his car, and it crashed into her mother's.
It wasn't the drivers fault, and neither was it hers.
She was dead on impact.
Her father had been the same, kind and loving, with dark eyes and hair.
But after losing the woman he'd loved for years so suddenly, something snapped.
He took it out on the first thing he could find, that being Molly herself.
It started with mental abuse, but soon it became physical, and then sexual.
Molly was eight when it had started, and was placed in a foster home at the age of 12.
From that moment, the one where she was finally saved from her father, Molly went from foster home to foster home, but she never stayed at one for a long time.
The abuse had broken her, turned her from a bright and bubbly girl into a mouse, closed off and not trusting of anyone.
No family wanted, or dared, to take on the case of the morbid girl with trust issues.
Molly started living on her own at the age of 17, paying for all she needed from the money she had inherited from her grandmother.
She worked hard in school, getting straight A's.
When she was 21, and just started specializing in pathology, she got the call.
Her father had been hospitalized and diagnosed with terminal cancer.
He passed on Christmas morning.
Molly told herself to be happy, but she couldn't.
Her father had died, leaving her alone, with no family so to speak of.
She hadn't cried on the funeral, like she hadn't cried on her mothers.
Molly was a graduated pathologist at the young age of 27.
Then Jim happened.
They met at the annual Bart's New Year's party.
He seemed nice, only to turn out to be a murdering gay psychopath with a Sherlock kink.
Another demon for her Christmas was born.
Then the Baker Street party happened.
She hadn't even gone there for Sherlock.
Yes, she was in love with him, but he wasn't the main reason.
She just didn't want to be alone.
After her mother died when she was eight, Molly hadn't had a proper Christmas.
Every Christmas was spent with her abusing father, foster families that didn't understand or alone.
She finally felt like she didn't have to be alone anymore.
Then he started deducing her.
Molly might have been hurt that night, but it wasn't as if it mattered.
After all, you can't break what's already shattered.
Now she was home alone out of free will, choosing to be on her own over being with her 'friends'.
She'd preferred being alone for ages, hence her choice in profession.
She loved her job; figuring out COD's, doing blood tests and such.
At least the dead wouldn't break her down.
She was shocked out of her thoughts by a knock on the door.
Sighing, she stood to open up.
She was met by the sight of the one and only Sherlock Holmes.
She stepped aside as a silent invitation to come in.
They sat down on her couch. She curled her legs underneath her and took Toby on her lap.
"You aren't ill." Sherlock broke the silence.
"No." She answered curtly.
"Then why aren't you at Baker Street right now?" Sherlock asked.
"I guess I didn't feel like it." Molly murmured, stroking the tabby on her lap.
Sherlock looked at her in silence before continuing.
"It is different without you there. You have to come with me."
Molly sighed.
"Sherlock, please. I'm not feeling well and I'm not in the mood for a party."
She looked at Sherlock, and instead if seeing his usual cold expression, she was met by eyes that were filled with a combination of worry, confusion and– dare she say it- love.
Sherlock scooted closer and took a hold of her hands.
"Tell me, Molly." He said. "Please."
Molly was stunned at first. Sherlock had begged. He never begged. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes. But he just had, for her. So she did what he asked.
She told him everything.
Her mother's death.
Her father's abuse.
The foster homes.
Her father's death.
Jim.
Her real reason behind coming to the Baker St. Party.
Everything.
When she was done, Sherlock was looking at her with big eyes as she rested her head against her knees, which she had pulled up to her chest during her monologue.
Sherlock always missed something, but how could he have missed that?
For the first time since he had known her, he finally saw her.
He could she how broken she was.
How utterly shattered she was.
He sat right next to her and slowly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.
Molly rested her cheek against his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat beat out a samba underneath it.
"I'm sorry." He murmured as he nuzzled her hair. "I'm sorry."
Molly just nodded, unable to say something.
Deep inside, she was relieved. Somebody knew now. Somebody knew about her demons.
It was also the first time since she was eight, that someone showed real care towards her.
Sherlock planted a kiss on top of her head and let out a sigh.
"What do you need, Molly?" He asked softly, but he already knew the answer, how ironic it might be.
"You."
That's it. Let me know if it's good or not.