(Hai guys. I had a really weird dream but when I woke up, I realised it could be a fic ^_^ I dunno whether I should continue with it or not, but whatever. slightly triggering, so read at your own risk. )
Just a few months ago, Molly Hooper was a happy woman. She had a great job, great friends and a family, (however great they definitely weren't, they were still hers and they still cared.). She worked hard as a pathologist, as a friend, even as a daughter; a clear contrast to the teenager she used to be years ago. She was the only girl in her family, eventually she became the only child in the family, to have actually gone to university and get a degree in a worthwhile subject; needless to say, her parent's hope was pinned on her eventual success.
Suddenly, in the middle of her ever growing happiness, a great fog brought on the unknown, and the unknown brought a chain of unfortunate events, her father being the first victim. One night, a day after her birthday; her father lost consciousness and was immediately taken to the hospital for many brain scans to rule out the root of his state. When Molly was told, over the phone by her "loving" mother, she dropped her school books, and ran out of the school premises, not bothered of the later consequences. It was too late though; he was gone the minute he collapsed. A stroke, the doctors informed; their apathetic expression firm on their faces as they try to comfort a grief stricken family, a size of four to what became three, and five years later three to two.
But yesterday, two nearly became one. Molly awoke from her hazy nightmare, cold. So very cold. She was lying in a small stream of blood, sourced by numerous gashes on her arm patterned in crimson; a clear murderous attempt.
Please, tell me that was Toby
She got to her feet; ignored the pain in her chest and arm, and rushed to the bathroom in hopes that her mother hadn't caught this obvious relapse.
Shit, shit, shit shit, shit
She practically chanted the words as she fervently wiped her wounds, sutured them and bandaged them up. The most oblivious scar was bandaged across her wrist. What was she thinking? How did she let herself become this mess again? She stared at the pale shell , apparently her reflection. She freshened up, cried a bit, wiped the tears and looked like a new person.
Molly wiped the blood on the floor, where she most likely fell unconscious and left her house to work, not even letting her mother, who was sound asleep in the next room, know that she was leaving.
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"Sherlock," John called for his friend who had surprisingly fell asleep after that crazy experience.
It had been three days since that terrible relapse, and now the man-child is stuck doing normal things; reading, shooting the wall, crying over his boredom and going through the basic withdrawal symptoms.
John realised there was no point in waking his friend up; it was a miracle that he was sleeping in the first place, so he decided to leave it. He left to go see a new girlfriend of his, unaware that Sherlock was actually awake the whole time. As soon as the door slammed shut, the tall man jolted to his feet, searching for the substances he retrieved and hid only to be interrupted by his damned ringtone.
"Hello?"
"Sherlock, it's Lestrade, we've got a new case," he explained. "Meet us at the morgue." Suddenly distracted with something worthwhile, the consulting detective left the flat.
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"Overdosed," Molly stated.
"I see, thanks for your help," Greg thanked her, not noticing her sallow complexion.
"Sir, we've got a potential suspect. His name is Andrew Michael," Donovan and the DI missed Molly's alarmed expression as they continued to speculate.
Sherlock sauntered in exactly at that moment, glaring at everyone that made eye contact with him. His eyes then fixed on the pathologist, who didn't even look up at him the minute he entered.
That's weird.
He looked deeply at her. Pale complexion, dark eyelids, no makeup, hair not kept in good state. Something must have happened.
That's when she lifted her arm to zip the body bag and he saw the bandage wrapped tightly around her wrist and all the pieces came together.
"You idiot!" he yelled without thought, she practically jumped and took a look at the man for the first time throughout the day.
"Of course, he'd deduce me," she thought to herself, still staring at man who looked like a volcano ready to erupt.
He's been on the drugs again. The look of discomfort is still there, even though he has a case. His hands are trembling, he looks incredibly tired.
"So are you," she answered, words that only the two of them understood. Lestrade and Donovan watched the exchange, unable to understand what exactly is going on between the two of them.
Sherlock approached her, so close to her that it made her uncomfortable. He holds gently to the bandaged wrist, his eyes flittered down to the injury then back to her eyes. She could've sworn she saw a tinge of hurt mixed in his eyes.
"No, not like you," he answered, with every attempt to offend her.
"Why not? There's absolutely no difference," Molly seethed, trying her best not to break down.
"Oh for God's sake, why does the freak always have to do this," Donovan groaned and put her hand on Molly's shoulder.
"Don't worry about me," Molly whispered. "It's him you all should worry about," she sighed.
"Didn't you just say there's no difference? They should worry for the both of us equally," Sherlock sneered.
"Well I'm not breaking the law," she said through a cracked voice.
"Oh you're not serious. What have you done Sherlock?" Lestrade's paternal voice returned after all these years.
He remained silent; Molly's words stung him as much as his words stung her. For once they both were even; if only the matter wasn't as serious as this then it could have been almost funny.
The two of them were cornered by two detectives, and to make matters worse, John, Mycroft and even Molly's mother rushed together in unison.
"Molly, why, you could have,"
"Sherlock, not this again, how many times must I tell you,"
"Guys, is everything alright?" voices echoed and spoke over one another.
Overwhelmed by all the shouting, Molly remained silent, unable to speak. She flinched when she felt sudden warmth invade her bloody hand.
It was Sherlock holding her hand.
He looked at her and gave her a look that only she understood. After a few seconds of silence, she nodded in approval.
And the two of them ran off, hand in hand, away from the chaos, away from their demons.
( so do you guys think i should continue, or leave it like this?)