"Molly, I'm dying."
The words were uttered so matter-of-factly that it took Molly a moment to understand how grave they were. Then, she did, and she was racing out of her flat, leaving the door unlocked. Her phone was still pressed against her ear as she ran, talking with the emergency service now. He hadn't provided any details before hanging up, but Molly knew. She knew exactly what to say to the operator.
In an ordinary situation Baker Street would be far away, so far away. Too far for her out-of-shape body to take the run. Her lungs were burning, her legs were giving up but Molly wouldn't stop. She couldn't, she couldn't.
The entrance door was closed but not locked, and she didn't bother closing it back after storming in, taking the steps two at a time. When she entered into the flat, breathing fast, legs faltering, Sherlock was sitting on the floor. He was trying to breathe and he looked at her with relieve when he saw her. He was a sweaty mess, his damp hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes stared at her out of focus and Molly saw, as she kneeled down in abandonment on the floor, the syringe lying there, thrown and forgotten. She got hold of Sherlock's torso and pulled his head up.
"Sherlock, it's Molly!" she was trying not to shout, trying to keep calm for his sake. "Talk to me!"
Sherlock was merely looking at her and Molly watched him fighting for conscience, attempting to blurt out some words. When they came, they were barely audible and dragged.
"I'm dying."
It was all he had to say. Molly sat down and placed his head on her lap and she spoke to him; the things she said didn't make much sense, but she couldn't think of any other way to soothe him.
"The ambulance will be here in a moment, please hold on, Sherlock. Don't give up; you are not going to die. I'm not giving up on you, you hear me?"
Sherlock tried to move his head and Molly helped him. His eyes locked with hers. His lips twitched in a crooked smile for a second.
"Thank you."
Then, at the same time that the paramedics walked with no warning and a rumble into the flat, he closed his eyes and Molly wanted to clutch to him, to never let go, to do something to make him right, but the paramedics needed to take him away. Sherlock was removed from her arms and then he was carried down the stairs. For a second Molly stood there, crying without even acknowledging it, trying to convince herself that it was all going to be okay.
Molly's guess was not completely right. It wasn't drugs; well, not per se either way. It was morphine instead of cocaine and as she waited she wondered if it made it all better or worse.
She looked at her own feet, recalling the sight that had received her at Baker Street a few hours before. Sherlock had been wearing his tuxedo and she wondered: if he had to take something to endure the night out with her, why had he accepted her dinner invitation? It was true that she had insisted a few times, and lately more out of habit than actual hope that he would accept it, but if Sherlock was so bored with the perspective of a night with her, why hadn't he refused, or cancelled their plans? He had been ready to leave the house, she could see it. When she found him on the floor he was already wearing his coat, and Sherlock only put on his coat when he was about to leave the flat. He loved that coat, that was certain, but he didn't use it around the house. And why morphine, anyway? That wasn't his usual gig. Plus, as long as she was aware, Sherlock hadn't taken drugs in a long time. He had been busy with cases, both from private clients and provided by Lestrade.
At the hospital they had taken care of Sherlock efficiently: there was still a residue of morphine in the syringe he had used, which had made it possible for the doctors to identify the drug Sherlock had chosen, and to proceed accordingly. Molly had waited with her heart on her mouth until she had finally heard the words 'non-fatal overdose' with relief. John, to whom Molly had called straight away in utter desperation, had arrived at the hospital right after and had a daunting expression to his face, as if he knew something Molly didn't, but he hadn't elaborated.
Molly sighed. Sherlock was still asleep, his hair a mess of black curls contrasting with the white pillow cover. Since John was a doctor they had allowed Sherlock's return to the flat without much ado. Now he had a restful expression in his face, at last.
Sherlock's finger twitched. Molly got up as she saw the movement, and Sherlock frowning. She saw him opening his eyes slowly, taking the room in.
It took a moment for Sherlock to adjust to the light in the room. It was just dimly lit, the only illumination was provided by the faint lamp over the nightstand. He moved his fingers again, trying to gauge the damage, whilst focusing to assimilate what had happened to him and why he was feeling like this. His muscles were sending spasms all over his body and his head was pounding. When he tried to swallow, his throat felt like sandpaper. He heard the kettle whistling and then he looked around the room.
Molly was standing on the right side of his bed, looking at him with concern written all over her. Even the way her hands were clenched against her chest showed what she was thinking. She was wearing one of his old worn out night gowns over a black silk dress and the makeup that still remained in her face was smudged, as if she had made just a little effort to remove it. Sherlock tried to speak but a fit of cough was all he managed to produce. He needed water.
Molly seemed to read his mind and reached out for the full glass on the nightstand, helping Sherlock sit down on the bed as well. Sherlock drank vehemently and at his gesture Molly filled the glass again, which he consumed promptly. Only then did his throat feel lubricated again, although he could still discern a bitter taste in his tongue.
John peaked at the door and walked into the room.
"Hey," he said, and he and Molly exchanged a look, "You're finally up."
Sherlock, who was now trying to arrange himself on the bed, smiled faintly.
"Looks like it," he mumbled.
John and Molly exchanged a look once again. Molly stared at Sherlock and opened her mouth to speak but John touched her arm lightly and with a pointedly look said, "Tea is ready, if you want some."
Molly frowned, confused for a second, but understanding then that John wanted to be alone with Sherlock. She nodded and left the room, looking at them once more for a second before disappearing behind the door.
John sat on the bed, waited a moment to make sure Molly was out of earshot, and then he faced Sherlock with a grim look on his face.
"What the hell was that?"
Sherlock sighed, and for the first time in his life he wanted to tell John to leave. Actually, he wanted to tell everyone to leave him alone. But he answered nevertheless.
"A calculation error," his voice was hoarse and tired.
"No," John said, and he seemed angry now, "I mean why has Molly asked me about drugs, why has Molly no clue about what is going on with you at the moment? You told me you had accepted her invitation to have dinner, but I thought she knew in advance what she was getting into."
Sherlock played with the fabric of the sheets between his fingers.
"I was planning on telling her tonight."
"You're lying."
Amazing how John had become an expert in recognising his lies. He sighed.
"I didn't want her to know just yet. She asked me out for dinner and I thought, given the circumstances, that I might as well accept it. I wondered if it would be better to lay it out to her, but then I realised that there was no point in doing so."
"No point in doing so?" there was disbelief all over John's face. "Sherlock, she is in love with you, or haven't you seen it yet? If you accept her invitation to dinner she will obviously assume that you have feelings for her."
Sherlock mulled the words over in his head for a second. Ironic, this all was.
"She doesn't deserve this, Sherlock."
"I don't deserve this either, John."
John fixed his gaze on Sherlock and for a moment Sherlock saw John's eyes welling up, but John took a finger to the bridge of his nose to stop the stream of tears and then he averted Sherlock's stare.
"That doesn't give you the right to treat people as you want to. You still have to respect them, now more than ever. Molly's in for a big disappointment. No, it's worse; it's so much worse that I can't even begin to find words for it."
"I only wanted to make her happy, John. And I suppose I was indulging myself here, in the hopes that she would make all of this slightly more bearable. More worthy."
The words were uttered with great struggle, not fluid and articulated as it was usual for him. John frowned.
"What are you saying?"
Sherlock swallowed and looked at the ceiling, letting a low and long sigh.
"Don't make me say it. You know what I mean."
John nodded, taking it in.
"You mean…"
"I won't say it."
"For how long?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"I don't know. I guess I only gave myself time to think about it when I got diagnosed. You know," there was irony to his voice now, more than anything, "You start to think about the things you'll miss, and the things you won't get to and say… The people you won't get to…"
John could see the word 'love' taking shape, but Sherlock would not pronounce it, of course he wouldn't.
"So you accepted to go out on a date with her nevertheless and despite it all?"
Sherlock nodded. Finally John understood what he was hoping not to have to say.
"That's a bit selfish, don't you think?"
Sherlock laughed, and the pain hit him again and he bended forward for a moment, responding instinctively in a vain attempt to make it stop.
"I think I can let myself be a bit selfish, in the light of recent events," he then turned his head slightly and looked at John. "I'm going to tell her. Tonight."
"She won't let you push her away nevertheless, not now and not like this."
"Good," Sherlock said. He didn't care about John's disapproval. He didn't care about being selfish. He wasn't even doing this for himself alone; he was doing it for Molly, too. He knew she would be hurt, but he hoped that what he was about to do could serve as a consolation prize later on. When he wasn't here anymore to see it.
John took a deep breath and then he got up.
"I'm going upstairs, I need to rest too. I'll be there if you need me," he seemed drained and Sherlock hated himself for doing this to him. "If Molly leaves, call me straight away and I'll keep you company. Okay?"
Sherlock nodded.
"I will," he said.
John nodded and then he paused for a second.
"Collateral damage, Sherlock."
Sherlock took in the words and observed as John walked away. Then he heard muffled sounds coming from the kitchen and finally John left the flat closing the door behind him and going up the stairs to his own room.
There was a faint knock on his door and Molly entered the bedroom, a bit unsure at first. She approached the bed. She was still worried about him, still hesitant as to what to say now.
"Why did you do it?" her question was just a whisper.
Sherlock took a deep breath and then he placed a hand on the bedcovers, signalling Molly to sit down next to him. Molly complied, holding her hair over her shoulder with her hand, something she did often when she was nervous.
"I'm dying."
The words sounded almost the same as when Molly had heard them on the phone, which seemed now like an eternity ago. She had no idea why he was saying them again, especially when they were no longer true.
"No, you will be fine. It was just a scare, that's all."
Sherlock smirked, but Molly realised he was sad, an expression he seemed to be unafraid to show in front of her, even if unaware that she could see him when he did.
"No, Molly. I am dying." he said the words slowly now, waiting for her to take them in.
Molly did not understand.
"I don't know what you are trying to tell me."
Sherlock took a hand to his chest.
"Lungs, Molly. The smoking got to me after all," Molly was still looking at him puzzled. "Cancer," he explained.
The words hit Molly like a punch in the gut. She felt herself struggling for air for a moment, like she was being detached from her own self, ripped to pieces.
"No," she said.
Sherlock reached out and touched her hand, just a single touch of the finger.
"I took the morphine because I was in pain and I didn't want to miss our date. But I miscalculated the dosage, and… Well, you know what happened next."
He was waiting for her to say anything at all but Molly seemed to have lost all capability to speak. She was just sitting there, staring at him and pleading silently for him to take those words away, to stop lying. But his face was serious, calmer than Molly could expect from someone making such a statement.
"I don't get it."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but Molly cut him short.
"Why now? Why this?"
She got up and opened her hands, pointing to herself with a swift motion. Then, with an irritated gesture of disbelief she pointed at Sherlock's tuxedo that John had placed carefully on top of a chair. Sherlock's eyes darted to his own hands and he seemed ashamed now.
"I wanted… I was going to tell you, I just needed some time first."
Molly had tears falling down her face now, and she was starting to get angrier than she intended to. She took both hands to her face and turned around, facing the door.
"Please don't leave me." Sherlock's voice was merely a whisper, a plea at that.
Molly, who had no intention to go anywhere and simply needed a moment, turned around to face him again. Sherlock was looking at her and Molly realised he was scared. She walked towards him and then she sat down again. Closer.
"It's… I don't understand. Why didn't you tell me before? Why did you accept my invitation to dinner?"
John's words resonated through the room again as Molly echoed them.
"Because I didn't want anyone to treat me differently. I didn't want anyone feeling sorry for me. I didn't want to have to face the fact that I am dying just yet. And you… I wanted you. As you are, wanting me for who I used to be, and not what I have become."
He blurted out the words with effort, not once making eye contact with Molly. She was crying now and it made it all the more difficult. She reached across the bed to envelope his hand in hers.
"But, you never liked me."
Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head.
"I have only just ignored it, Molly. It was too complicated, too… exposing," Molly was waiting for the truth, not some veiled excuse. He took a deep breath, "I'm tired of the façade, Molly. I don't have time to play games anymore."
Sherlock blinked a few times, trying to stop the stream of tears to run down his face, hoping to keep some composure.
"How long?" she asked, her voice faltering.
"They estimate six months, could be less, but most likely not more."
Molly nodded.
"I can do with six months."
Her words ended in a choked up sob, and Sherlock felt her squeezing his hand, sensing that she was already frightened he could dissolve in front of her, making sure he was still palpable underneath her fingers. She would hold on to him like so for then on, until she had no choice but to let go.
She kneeled on the bed, getting as close to him as possible and then she rested one hand on his face. Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch, her thumb tracing his skin. He opened his eyes. Molly was so close he could see the imperfections on her skin, the colours that constituted her iris, the remainder of the tears still lingering on her eyelashes. He rose on hand to touch her face as well.
It was Molly who kissed him first. Quietly, like a breeze on a summer night, her lips parting his alone. Then, Sherlock involved her torso in his arms and Molly felt herself being pulled towards him. She sat down by his side, and in the time the kiss lasted her mind was racing. She didn't want to cry but that was supposed to be a hello, not the goodbye it felt like. This was an end before the start, the desperation of a love that time was already consuming inexorably.
Sherlock was the first to pull away, breathing fast.
"I'm too tired," he said, cupping her face in his hands, "I'm sorry."
Molly shook her head. She was crying again and Sherlock cleaned her face.
"I wish I had done all this earlier," he confessed, burying his head in her chest, "I never thought…"
Molly grabbed his chin, demanding that he faced her.
"Don't. Don't."
She removed the night gown and the dress, and Sherlock stared at her naked skin, making room for her on the right side of the bed. They laid down side by side, holding hands and staring at each other. Then, Molly wrapped herself around his arms and they spoke the night through, talking about everything but the reality that would haunt them at every step, like a bomb clock surely to explode. And just before he fell asleep, with Molly's warm body against his, Sherlock thought that maybe this didn't have to be a bad thing, in the end. After all, we're bound to love more the things we can't take for granted. It was not a reassuring thought, and certainly not a comforting one, but it was better than acknowledging the whole tragedy of it.
They made love in the morning, clumsily, slowly. They took each other's scents in, relishing in the rhythmic movements of their bodies, savouring each new intake, sighing each other's names, climaxing together. Sherlock kissed every inch of Molly's body over and over and Molly laughed, the sound echoing through the walls. In that moment, they were eternal, or they pretended that it was so.
Sherlock didn't die with stoicism. He went fighting and struggling and trying to hold on to a life he ended up hating and loving in the same measure. On his last days he was exhaustive and angry and rude, and Molly cried when he was sleeping and John wasn't there. She saw him become what he most feared. It was ugly. There's nothing romantic about dying.
But he had loved her. Oh god, he had loved her with the same passion he once used to put into his work, with the same euphoria he felt when he stripped down a person to their most intricate secrets, and he had made her happier than she thought was humanely possible. Sherlock had proven that not feeling was a decision he had made over time, not an innate character trait. He had also proven that, when willingly, he could love. He could mirror and amplify someone's emotions, and Molly had never felt so alive.
When he left, it didn't feel to Molly that he was forever gone. She could still smell him on her pillow, feel his presence in the walls of her house, in the streets they had walked, in the silence of the morning.
Molly was sitting by the window when the doorbell rang. She got up, dropped her tea cup on the sink and put on her coat, leaving the flat. John was waiting for her downstairs, carrying Sherlock's ashes in a simple urn. They took a cab because it was simpler and they talked about anything else but what they were about to do.
The place Sherlock had chosen was abandoned now. Just a ghost of what had once been a beautiful home. This was his childhood house, and Molly could picture Sherlock there, running with his apparently never ending energy. Redbeard's grave was still there at the far back of the house, the hand-made wooden cross tilted to the side, knocked down by the wind. She grabbed a small shovel she had brought in her purse and she removed just a bit of sand; she didn't want to dig too deep. Then, she and John dropped the ashes there, and this time John covered them up, as Molly straightened up the cross.
It was mundane, but Molly thought that such an extraordinary life could do with a mundane ending. It fit. And it had been Sherlock's wish anyway.
As they returned, John retrieved something from the inside pocket of his jacket and he gave it to Molly. She stared at it, a black moleskin notebook, the same Sherlock used to take notes on his cases.
"Surely you should keep it?" Molly asked, even though she actually wanted to have it.
John shook his head.
"He speaks a lot about you in the end. I think you will like to read it."
John left her by her flat and they parted ways, promising to keep in touch. Molly went up the stairs and sat on the sofa, legs wrapped underneath her. She started to flip the pages slowly, discerning Sherlock's handwriting. It was obvious that sometimes he was scribbling fast and other times more carefully, but on the last quarter of the notebook the letters were well drawn, written with time, and then almost illegible, because his strength was beginning to falter.
He had analysed Molly like an interesting subject and taken notes accordingly, rather than turning the moleskin into a journal of their time together. He had always been averse to romanticising things.
Molly closed the notebook but there was something else there, a small yellowed paper peaking, concealed in the notebook's flap. Molly retrieved it and opened it. It was folded in four and the creases were deep. It was a poem.
"My skin is made of three layers:
Fact, observation and deduction,
And these are my rules and guidance.
I see the world for what it is,
And there is nothing beautiful in it,
Nothing that makes me want to stay.
These houses will be gone one day,
Turn into ashes and dirt,
And I am glad I won't be here to see it.
This is my story:
Fact, observation and deduction.
And I
Am now the ashes, and the dirt.
She makes me want to stay."
Molly folds the paper again, following the same creases Sherlock had once created. She gets up, puts the notebook away in her nightstand drawer and then she leaves the house again. She goes to the morgue and she works. She works even though her colleagues stare at her because she shouldn't be there. She works even when it feels as if her chest is being compressed and she can hardly manage to breathe.
Fact, observation, deduction. She sees the world for what it is and it makes her want to go.