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Thrive
She wasn't a delicate flower. In spite of a certain dreamy quality, she didn't require a glass-walled greenhouse and the persistent attentions of a dedicated gardener to thrive. Like a plant in the arctic, she had managed to withstand the icy winds of his tempestuous nature. She survived on very little, taking an apologetic kiss or a surprising validation that she counted as nourishment to last for long periods without any contact or kindness.
If anything, he was the fragile plant. Once away from his rarified atmosphere, he became more dependent on her. And as always, she tended to him.
But now, after three years he was back. And if things weren't exactly the same, if he sulked at not having John exclusively to himself, if he couldn't quite erase the nightmares of losing his identity, he was still mostly the same Sherlock Holmes who ran rings around Scotland Yard, blithely insulted the 99% of the world he considered morons, and left her alone unless he needed something.
She had done her part. She had believed. She had given as much of herself as he would accept and hoped to have given more. And now, she felt herself an empty husk, a withered plant, not worthy of being pressed and preserved between the pages of a favorite book. Why would he? He didn't believe in sentiment.
She was tired. Perhaps she was a little depressed as well. When he came to the morgue, as he still did, his energy still awoke her from lassitude. But when he left it was harder to care about the very ordinary things she had once enjoyed.
…
She was fading away before his eyes. Once he would not have noticed. Or rather, he would have always noticed, but it wouldn't have been more than one of many observations that his brain couldn't help formulating as he instantaneously collected and connected impressions.
He would walk into the morgue and she would still jump up, voice stammering, eyes dilated, cheeks unable to prevent the flush, a warm smile just for him. And like always, like he had needed in those years when he had relentlessly tracked Moriarty's hired killers, like she had always been, she helped him. But he could see, in that instant before she registered his presence, that she wasn't the same Molly Hooper. She was drifting away, a lost dream, and he didn't know how he could, if he could call her back.
It was all sentiment he supposed. And part of him couldn't help calculating as he used to, if a smile or a compliment would serve. But it seemed shoddy, to go back to such cheap tricks with a woman who had saved his life. He had been humbled – though his detractors claimed not to see it. His world had never been large; the people he cared for easily numbered on one hand. Nevertheless, he had grown used to, had expected the world's adulation. Then, they had derided him. Yet, Molly had always believed.
Yes, he knew she was not completely selfless. But he needed her. He needed both her professionalism and her loyalty. He even, though he would never have imagined it, needed the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. And he was losing her. Not to another man – she hadn't even tried dating again since that day in the morgue – no, Sherlock was losing her to something he didn't know if he could fight against. She needed care; she needed love. And he…
…
He looked at her sometimes now. Her breath would catch in her throat. She saw apologies in his eyes constantly. They only served to kill her that little bit more. She didn't need him to apologize for not loving her. It made her angry. How could she let herself wither away like some pining Victorian heroine?
….
She looked at him sometimes, with such compassion and understanding. It made him angry. Why wouldn't she expect anything from him? Not that he wanted her to continue with a banal fantasy of romantic dinners by a fireplace – not that he was ready to give in to sentiment – but even John expected him to behave properly – told him when he was being not good. He thought back to that one Christmas when Molly had accused him. He remembered all the times she had simply accepted him as he was, loved him as he was.
…
She forced herself to be more active, to make more interest in the rest of her life. A few interesting activities, a new show on the telly to eagerly watch and discuss with friends, an interesting research project which might lead to her next paper, she was waking up again. He was still the brightest portion of her universe; she would still give everything for him. But she was finding herself anew.
…
He observed the changes with relief and a bit of wistfulness. Perhaps he had thought for a moment that he should tell her… that he should ask her… The crisis was over for now. She was strong. She had overcome her demons. Why then did he feel so adrift?