I'd like to thank everyone who responded to my query in the last chapter regarding how Molly's personal information was achieved. I had no idea she had a blog or that John's was actually real on BBC. And while I'm thrilled to go exploring them all, I've decided that I'll be routing a different course of events for Molly regarding her thoughts and actions regarding Sherlock and her past experiences. Other than that, I want to thank you all very much for providing me with such a great response. I never thought this story would gain much, especially with the OC-ness, but I think everyone internally roots for Molly to stick up for herself because Sherlock really does take her for granted. Also, just keep in mind that not everything is as it seems. Sherlock doesn't show vulnerable emotion often, or sentiment, so he might continue being a prick because it's easier to express himself this way. Less painful. Or maybe he just wants to be a prick. I don't know. He goes off on ramblings sometimes. Anyways, enjoy!
Chapter 2 - The Friends We Lose
The atmosphere hung heavy with a noxious tension as Molly continued her fluid motions, eyes focused on Noonan's chest cavity. She'd just done the procedural incision and was now studying the condition of his organs with a sharp eye when unexpectedly, John cleared his throat.
Knocked out of her study, Molly paused reluctantly, understanding a brief explanation would need to be related to the two men. It was cruel to leave them completely in the dark, especially John who Molly never had to play a guessing game with in figuring out whether or not he cared for her. His actions alone spoke for the ingrained kindness those who were close to him, saw.
The question now remained: how did she go about telling a polite John and moody Sherlock that everything from her perception of self to her understanding of how precious life was, had so drastically been altered in the course of just under a month?
She once had a speech prepared for this exact moment, actually, but that was before realizing how good of an actress she could be in front of Sherlock Holmes who never so much as commented on the way her smile never quite reached her eyes after the incident with Pete Morris.
Granted, she'd given it her all to act like nothing had happened. To explain to the greatest detective alive that she'd allowed herself to be victimized and frightened by a petty criminal, especially with the Moriarty debacle still fresh in their minds, was a needlessly humiliating experience. And fortunately, she didn't see Sherlock for an entire week after the incident, allowing her to submerge most of the vulnerability she'd experienced that night, away from prying eyes. Without even realizing it, Molly regressed back to her usual routine so flawlessly that even she was surprised at the progress she'd made.
But that didn't mean she hadn't wanted him to wordlessly appraise her like he did so often the corpses on a slab. To pick out what she'd been too angry and ashamed of explaining herself and pester her to tell him not because he needed an answer to her mystery, but because he generally cared about what went on in her life like she did with his.
Then again, this was Sherlock Holmes she was talking about. In the month that passed after the break in, she came to understand such a response was near improbable to usher out of the egotistical genius. Especially after he shut down when she'd made the greatest leap of blind faith and professed her love to him.
More to the point, however, the speech consisting of why exactly she kept up her silence, evaporated like smoke into dense air. The more Molly began to uncover the inner workings of who Sherlock really was, the more she realized how utterly unnecessary the speech was.
No matter how or when she told him, she knew he wouldn't react like a concerned friend. No, he'd do his own regression into an unfazed detective.
"It's difficult to be optimistic in such a cynical world," she began, smiling grimly at this as her eyes resumed their inspecting. "You're often put down, ridiculed, told off, and on occasion, nearly murdered. Not exactly an easy life style to maintain."
"Doesn't mean you can't ask for help," John gently spoke. "Molly, you know we would have helped you in a heart beat in finding the bastard. You could have come to us."
"The thought did cross my mind for about two seconds," she admitted, grabbing her recorder. "Hang on a sec, boys."
With that, her attentions shifted to the autopsy.
"Robert Noonan, male, aged forty-three. Suffered an asthma attack in salt water, trachea is tender to the touch and shows signs of inflammation and trapped mucus. Water retrieved from inside the lungs holds high amounts of salinity. Time of death ranges from twelve to fourteen hours, considering the decomposing process of the tissue."
She clicked off the recorder, dropping it on a nearby tray.
"Actually, could we have this conversation another time?" she decided, smoothing together the flaps of skin once united over his chest. "I want to get in at least six more before the day is over and I have a sinking feeling they're not going to be nearly as clear cut as Mr. Noonan here. Pun not intended."
"No."
The stubborn reply was voiced from the equally stubborn detective who calmly pushed himself away from his work bench, keeping his pace even as he approached her.
Molly felt a prickle of anger singe her insides. Only because the emotion made her hands clench, did she calmly move away from Noonan's body.
"This is my lab, Sherlock," she reminded, proud to maintain her composure. "You being here is a privilege, not a right. I'd hate to have to kick you out, or worse, make sure security doesn't allow you back on the premises. So, in the hopes of saving us all a headache, will you behave and drop the matter until I am ready to discuss it?"
Though it lasted seconds, Molly saw the surprise flash across Sherlock's face, contorting his usually knowing mask into one of uncertainty.
Good. About time he listens to someone else's monologue besides his own.
"Sherlock, I think we should-."
"Stupid," the detective interrupted, ignoring John as he neared the slab. "Stupid, stupid woman! Why stay in your flat when you knew he was still roaming the streets? You know bravery suits you terribly, Molly. And I told you to get your bolts replaced! A blind man with one hand could pick through your locks. Do you ever listen to anything I tell you?"
Molly faintly thought it was both a relief and a nauseance that she still didn't have a scalpel in her hand. Because the closer Sherlock approached, with only Noonan's graying form separating them, the more her fingers itched to use it.
Odd, isn't it? How all of a sudden, you're seeing him for what he really is. Never mind any concern he might have had. Or fear that you could have died. His response is exactly as you imagined. Pity.
"Seeing you like this, Sherlock, is one of the reason why I didn't tell you what happened," Molly informed as evenly as she could. "Only you would think to blame me for my stupidity rather than ask if I was alright. Only you would scold me for not having replaced my bolts with money I didn't have at the time rather than try to understand what happened in the flat that night. Stupid, stupid Molly with the imperfect mouth and breasts who shouldn't ever date and is expected to grovel to Sherlock Holmes for his protection after a burglary! My God, do you even listen to what you say sometimes?"
She didn't let him respond, throwing out a hand to silence whatever protests were ready to spew from his mouth. She could feel her inner anger rise, clouding all kindness threatening to charge through and censor her.
"Of course not! I swear that if my self esteem were any lower and I didn't instinctively know you were wrong with every hurtful thing you've ever said to me in the past few years, I'd probably have offed myself long ago. That's been your relationship with me, Sherlock. One of you paying occasional, insincere compliments to me so you could get what you wanted, followed by a wave of cruelty because it's so bloody easy for you to say something nasty rather than nice without considering who's feelings you've hurt. Well, I'm not putting up with it any longer, you hear me? And now that I've fully accepted for once in my life that there's no possible chance you could ever love someone as stupid as me, I'll kindly say what I've been meaning to for ages. Mind your own damn business and get the hell out of my lab!"
Her chest heaved at the end of the proclamation, and it took a fair amount of inhaling and exhaling to finally get her hands to stop shaking.
All the while, Sherlock stared at her impassively, his blue-green gaze hard and unwavering.
Well, we can't take back the words now, can we? And don't let that guilt overwhelm you. If you never stuck up for yourself, he would have kept treating you like this for the years to come. It's the right thing to do, Molly. Repeat that instead of opening your mouth to apologize.
It wasn't until this thought drifted through her head that she realized her mouth had indeed been soundlessly inching open, readying herself to apologize because this was bloody Sherlock Holmes she just insulted and after this, there stood little chance of him ever talking to her again.
Is that really such a loss, though? Years of pining for this man and what do you have to show for your affections? A few kind gestures and a shaky self image. This is your closure, Molly. You need to sever your ties with this man because he's kept you in a false state of hope for so long that you've forgotten how to live your life. You need to sever your ties from him so you can prepare yourself for what life's been trying to send you while you were too busy indulging in a school girl crush.
The longer Sherlock stared at her wordlessly, the easier it was for Molly to gather internal confidence in her awakening. Her mind unloaded all sorts of questions that she didn't have solid answers to, and in knowing they would remain answerless, her posture straightened, eyes shined with assertion, and mouth pursed in content.
Why pine for a man who treats you beneath your own worth? Why allow his compliments to dictate your actions? Why allow him to be such a permanent figure in your life when you know you are nothing more than a speck of dust in his? You've given him so much heart, so much of yourself, Molly Hooper, that it's only fair you deserve some sort of retribution. An era in your life where the only pain you experience is bumping your knee getting out of a taxi or spilling hot cuppa on yourself. You should not be this emotionally spent at your age, especially now that you hold the knowledge of how quickly everything could end.
"John," Molly redirected, relieved to be able to speak without including the aggression her epiphany unleashed, "please escort Mr. Holmes out of my lab. I'm quite angry right now and this is for his benefit. Just as well, I most certainly will not be discussing my personal life over a cadaver."
The doctor nodded timidly, making his way over to the consulting detective like an incarcerated man dragging his feet against the tiled floors of death row.
Instead of acknowledging John's attempt at being reasonable, however, Sherlock burned her with one final, unreadable stare before pushing past his friend and stalking out the morgue doors.
Molly willed her guilt to stay contained at his departure. Yes, she may have just knowingly finally hit the last nail on the coffin, so to speak, of her and Sherlock's friendship, but that didn't mean she felt proud of ending things on such a bitter note.
At this point, it had to happen like this. Playing nice would have made you a push over again.
"I couldn't do it anymore, John," she announced wearily after the silence got to be mutinous. "It was all so pointless and getting to be so depleting. I thought maybe things would change after his suicide. Doesn't ask for help, you know, from very many people. And things were good for awhile, but that's the underlying circumstance you're going to get with Sherlock, though it's impossible to see because he radiates so much bloody energy. Everything is temporary."
"He doesn't deserve all you've given him," John agreed sheepishly, his nod easing down the guilt she felt stir restlessly inside her. "But I've gotta know...what changed in your relationship in the year he was in hiding?"
She answered without hesitancy, and this time around, Sherlock's rejection felt just a little less wounding. Progress, she internally hoped.
"I told him I loved him."
"Ah."
"Not the brightest idea, is it?" she murmured, the corner of one lip rising up humorlessly. "Still, it needed to be said. Keeping it inside, or worse, expecting Sherlock to inaudibly understand, would only prolong the imbalanced state of whatever relationship we had."
"He didn't react well, I take it?"
"There actually wasn't much of a reaction at all. The next day, he was gone and the world learned of his miraculous resurrection. Month of April begins and ends with us working along side each other again like we did before, but I knew there was something off about him. Took me a while to label it as...detachment. Greeted me, sure. Insulted me as well for my inability to keep up with him when his brain soared only to the heights we know him to be capable of. Those things hardly changed. But he did because he never once brought up what I'd confessed to him nor any personal topics of debate that would normally allow him to display that rare vulnerability he's blessed with. Course by the time I understood what it was he was doing, I had the break in at my flat. Needless to say, my priorities changed after that. And those changes made it possible for me to finally tell Sherlock off today. I mean...it's pointless to love a man who doesn't know what love is."
"That might be laying it on a bit harsh."
"I have no doubt that he cares for people," Molly recanted. "I'm not denying that at all! He sacrificed his life and reputation for those he held dear to him. But I was never really quite one of those people, nor did I ever have a chance of being reasonably close. Knew it for awhile, but it took him insulting me today for me to finally voice it."
John appeared indecisive for a moment, but Molly hardly blamed him. She'd just partly pushed onto him the emotional journey she'd been on in the past month. Compared to the quiet, doting girl she'd been, it was understandably a great shock to absorb how hastily she'd slipped into the role of someone who didn't back down from an argument simply because the opponent was someone they once respected.
"I'm sorry."
"You've done nothing wrong," she assured. "Honestly, all this has more to do with my own set of revelations I've worked out. Eventually, I knew I'd have to detach myself from him the same way he did me. But I put it off because I was scared. Today, though, I couldn't keep it in. I blame myself enough as it is for what happened. But he took it to the point where I seriously debated slashing off all his curls just to get him to shut up for one second."
The man smiled slightly at this, tilting his head thoughtfully.
"Now that's actually not that bad of an idea. He always claims to not care what he looks like. But not everyone's born with the broody good looks, are they? I'd like to see him go a day in the life of an average bloke."
"Could never pull it off."
"Never," John agreed, his spirits rising slightly. "But in all seriousness, I'll keep Sherlock away from Bart's for as long as you need. Though you may feel a terrifying anger at him right now, it won't stay there forever. Trust me on this. I know it's asking a lot to brush off what he's said this time around, but you know him better than most people-."
Molly inaudibly found herself disagreeing with this, but let John continue because she didn't want to spoil the moment.
"-he'll be his usual intrusive self once he assumes the dust has settled. Hopefully, he'll appreciate you a litte bit more."
"Thank you, John."
"Anytime, Molly."
As an afterthought, John added, "If you ever want to talk about what happened between you and Morris, I'm here. I understand why the secrecy is necessary, but I've been told I'm a good listener. And I want to make sure that you're okay."
"I'm okay," Molly promised. "I've never been more okay in my life."
"I'm glad, then. You're important. To the both of us."
She smiled, but it was one of those drained ones where she couldn't quite muster up the believability into it.
"You are," John reassured sternly, finally witnessing the proof of his previous worries to Sherlock. "He's too afraid to admit it because it makes him feel weak, but he wouldn't have survived Moriarty without you. And the fact that he's keeping you at such arm's length now might actually be because you mean more to him than even he's used to and he doesn't quite know what to do with that."
This time, Molly released a sarcastic chuckle, appalled and emboldened by her own disbelief in the statement.
"Sorry...that was rude," she apologized timidly. "Thank you for the consideration, though."
He looked like he had more to say, but his mobile buzzed insistently against his leg, breaking whatever sentimental mood had hung in the air.
They exchanged a final smile before the morgue simmered back into a comfortable silence as John's foot steps fled down the hallway.
"Well," she finally stressed out after a long minute, glancing down, "it's just you and me, Mr. Noonan."
She felt incredibly silly, chatting idly to a corpse, but she knew Sherlock did much of the same when he was engaged in a case. And while she wasn't exactly in the mood to praise the consulting detective for anything, she did feel a bit more liberated in knowing she wasn't the only one to partake in this abnormal indulgement.
Actually, it felt oddly therapeutic in a way. The dead keep secrets certainly far better than the living and in aftermath of Sherlock's departure, Molly was still feeling the slightest bit miffed. And empty. And hurt. And a whole bunch of other conflicting emotions.
"I didn't mean to ruin our friendship," she explained quietly. "I just wanted to know he cared. But...he doesn't."
Robert Noonan failed to respond.
Molly didn't mind.
()()()()()()()()()
"You've got to apologize."
Sherlock's disinterested gaze stayed fixed on the window, fingers strumming his violin lethargically. If it wasn't for the slight inclination the detective's head made in his direction, John would have thought he was being ignored completely.
"Sherlock," he repeated, voice firmer, "you do realize this changes things. Molly standing up for herself and threatening to take away your access to the lab is a wake up call. One I hope you're hearing loud and clear."
When this failed to elicit a response, John released a groan, struggling to convey the seriousness of what had occurred not even a full hour ago.
"You just called Molly Hooper stupid. You blamed her for a situation she had no control over. Your friend, Sherlock. Someone who's provided you with so much and has received so little in return. I get repulsed by how you handle things now and then, but this is the most I've been disappointed in you in a long time."
The detective stilled, narrowed eyes flicking over to the blogger.
"I hardly care if you're disappointed in me."
"Fine," John snapped, "then acknowledge this. Molly Hooper no longer considers you a priority in her life. Believe it or not, she's not nearly as stupid as you think she is. You've been cold to her and she knew it. With today, she's finally decided not to let it go on. She doesn't care anymore, Sherlock. She's tired of how you treat her and she's fully ready to move on with her life in light of almost having her own ended. That's not something to take lightly."
"You were always fond of being dramatic."
"You brushed her off when she told you she loved you!" he plowed on. "No matter how enamored Molly was, no one can ignore a reaction like that. You may not see it now, but she's changed. If you would have picked up on the warning signs sooner, you'd know that. And rather than behave indifferently, you should be bloody nervous to lose the trust of someone who cared about you so strongly."
When Sherlock maintained his silence, John ran a weary hand through his hair. Sometimes, it was like attempting to teach a privileged child what he did wrong.
"You know what...you're a grown man," the blogger decided. "You can make your own choices. I'm not cleaning this mess up and I'm certainly not going to help you figure out how to earn back Molly's trust. Because right now, I think distancing herself from you is the best choice she could have made. And you...well, you're making your feelings quite clear, aren't you? Impassive, uncaring, disinterested. Might be easy to keep the pretense up now, but along the road, you're going to regret treating Molly the way you did today. And next time around, she's not going to be there to nod her head and say it's okay. That, mate, is going to be on you."
Without allowing Sherlock to reply, John stomped through the kitchen and out the flat door.
In the wake of his absence, the detective discarded his violin onto the table, bolting up from his chair. He had the sudden initiative to work on three cases simultaneously, but all of this potential was being barricaded by the unexpected emotions spiraling inside him, collaborating together to make him feel utterly sick to his stomach.
"I've done nothing wrong."
But he felt far worse after voicing this, knowing that this time around, his words might have a bit more of a permanent effect on the person he'd used them on. Especially when anger hadn't been even remotely close to the emotion he'd actually felt upon learning how close to death Molly Hooper had came.
()()()()()()()()()
As the pale gray evening submitted to a windy, dark night, Molly found her thoughts wandering aimlessly whilst sewing up cadaver number five. They'd been chaotic all day, admittedly, but rather than helping her mull over the events of earlier this morning, these brought her back to the night the police surrounded her flat.
"Molly."
Instinctively, the woman tightened the paramedic's blanket around her despite the material feeling heavy and itchy.
"I have to take your statement."
Nodding, she acknowledged, "I'd rather have it be you, Greg."
The DI moved closer, recognizing Molly's reluctance to speak loud and focus unnecessary attention to her state.
"Did he harm you? Physical bruises or scars?"
"No. But...he shot through the bathroom door once I managed to lock myself inside," she explained quickly, eyes focused on everything and nothing at the same time.
"He kept you at gun point the entire time?"
"Yes."
"He intended to kill you?"
The words didn't sound right, stringed together. It reminded Greg of the unfortunate euphemism that bad things happened to good people, Molly's case being no different.
"Yes."
He scribbled this down grimly. "What finally spurred you to fight him off and get yourself to the bathroom?"
A tremble gripped Molly for a brief moment as her eyes dropped to her feet. She didn't answer for a full minute, but she didn't use this abated silence to cry either. She just sat motionlessly, absorbing her shock.
"He was going to force himself on me," she revealed vacantly, refusing to look at anything but the ground. "Kind of a present to himself, he said. For having come across such an obedient victim."
Greg's fingers tightened around the pen, but he let Molly continue on.
"I did it on purpose. Complied, that is. I was waiting for him to falter and lift his gun away from me. Even for a moment so I could do something. And when he finally did, I managed to kneel him in the groin. Bought me a few extra seconds."
"I heard the gun shot through the phone when you called."
Her lips quirked up emotionlessly. "I felt the bullet pass behind me."
After this information was noted, Greg clicked his pen, point tip retreating. He scanned their area quickly and when no one person looked ready to invade their personal space, the DI lowered himself to a kneel beside Molly.
"Are you alright?"
"Still in shock. I wish I could feel more," she told him, meeting his eyes cautiously. "But other than that, I'm okay."
"You know if I call Sherlock right now, the bastard will be caught by morning."
"Don't. I'll talk to him," she argued lightly. "He's been working on the same case for an entire week. It'll break his concentration."
"But Molly-."
"Greg, please. Just let me talk to him myself."
He found himself nodding to her request, knowing it'd be unfair of him to notify Sherlock without her consent.
"At least stay with some friends for a few days," he suggested gently.
"And let myself give in to fear? I'm pathetic enough as it is. Jumping at my own shadow isn't how I want to handle this."
"You're not pathetic."
She smiled somberly at this.
"I know. But he made me feel like I was. God, first it was Jim, now this. I don't know why I allow myself to be so easily blind sided by bad people."
Greg hadn't heard Molly speak so blatantly about her personal life up to this point in their working relationship and understandably, he couldn't help but extend his sympathy to her.
"No one scans every inch of their flat after getting home from a twelve hour shift," he assured soothingly. "You're not at fault here, Molly. You were tired and the victim of unfortunate circumstance."
To his surprise, she shook her head stubbornly.
"No...I was distracted. I've been so bloody distracted! I choose not to see my surroundings because I place my hope in unreasonable dreams. In unreasonable...people. And it pains me to say this, but I'm almost relieved something like this happened. It's made me snap out of it. It's made me see just how little and unhappily I've been living even though I've told myself otherwise."
Unsure how to respond, Greg simply allowed Molly her silence. He felt it was more of a personal statement rather than one for him to comment on. Even though he had plenty to say, starting with what happened inside the flat that made Molly so brazen and nearly unafraid. She was shaken up, sure, and still absorbing her situation, but Greg knew from enough encounters with female victims that Molly was handling her situation remarkably well considering the man intended to rape and kill her.
He wanted to know now more than ever, what sort of thoughts were tumbling around in her head. He was sure they'd even manage to surprise Sherlock who didn't regard many people as being strong willed.
"When you find him, will you tell me?" she suddenly asked. "I want to know."
"Of course. Are you sure you don't want to stay with a friend tonight? Maybe Mary's?"
"No. She's with John tonight and I don't want to worry her."
Greg frowned at the answer. Preferrably, he'd have liked to have Sherlock stay with her. He couldn't decipher the nature of their relationship, but he knew a mutual concern for each other existed.
But it was gruellingly obvious just by listening to the strain in her voice, that she didn't consider herself to be important enough to buzz up her friends and let her know she needed company. Especially with what happened to her.
"I expect you to get in contact with me," he pressed. "I mean it, Molly. I want to know how you are. And tell Sherlock about what happened. If there's anyone who's more dedicated to helping you than us, it'd be him."
"I will. Thank you."
He lifted his arm, intending to offer her a half hug, but at her sharp flinch, his arm dropped. He knew not to take the panic in her eyes personally. It was a reflex in response to what occurred in her flat. But his temper rose at the idea of Molly being cursed with this sort of reaction, despite herself.
"Take care and call if you need anything," he stated, moving to his feet.
"Thank you, Greg."
Her thoughts ripped away from the conversation and another bout of guilt rocketed through her. She'd lied to Lestrade in the face, someone who had wanted to do nothing more than help her. That certainly would make their next conversation a bit tense.
However, when she inspected the positive side of not informing Sherlock of her situation, Molly knew she made the right choice.
"That's painful to admit, you know," she told Lisa Grant's stitched up form. "That I can't tell him about my own brush with death because he'd disregard it. Even though I was so involved with his own life."
The word 'pathetic' briefly reared its head back again, but Molly pushed it away.
Perhaps chatting to cadavers isn't as soothing as it was a few hours ago.
Nodding to herself, Molly inaudibly vowed to keep herself mute when observing her last body of the day. She couldn't afford to get irrationally depressed when she reminded herself a lively night was still ahead of her.
That's new, isn't it? Month ago and I'd be returning to Toby and an empty apartment. But now I've got old friends, a pint or two to drink, and Noah Flint. Slowly but surely, it's working. To be excited by life again.
Once her mind preoccupied itself with Noah and the vigorous events that unfolded within the short amount of time they'd known each other, Molly visibly found herself relaxing.
Yes, she would make tonight eventful.
Yes, their friendship is certainly busting apart at the seams. And who knew Molly would be somewhat alright with it? Let me know your thoughts in a review!