warning; this chapter is a bit heavy. At least it felt like it when I was writing it, so maybe i'm biased.

And can i just say a huge thank you to the reviewers, your reviews are so nice and constructive, they genuinely brighten my day. I'm even starting to recognise names and people who review consistently, though please don't feel obligated to review.

Dr Brand said the dream had just been a manifestation of her fears, but that in no way meant it would happen.

"So I won't just drop down dead?" had countered Molly warily.

Dr Brand didn't answer that.

Molly didn't attend their next session

...

'Are you sure you want so much cut off' asked the voice of a wary tall skinny male, a look of apprehension on his face.

The female sat in front of him nodded unseeingly.

He cut the first strand. He was finished within forty minutes, her wispy hair covering the floor. Her reached just below her shoulders. It hadn't been this short ever; her father had always loved her long hair, which had been so much like her mothers. She liked it. It was odd, but in a good way.

Yet it hadn't got rid of the feeling. She was sure it would.

She turned to Craig the hairdressers.

'Thank you' she said meekly. He frowned subtly.

'Do you like it?' he asked. She just nodded.

Craig noted a weird look of lost expectation on her face. Whatever she had been expecting, this wasn't it.

...

Molly's phone was ringing. She didn't even look at it. She had been doing so for four days.

Molly remembered working with those with depression during her rotation during her residency. Technically she knew the symptoms, the signs. Molly knew now she had depression, yet it felt much different than she expected. Its expected nowadays that depression is just being sad, and suicidal. But it feels more complex than that.

Molly felt tired; constantly. She also felt curiously numb, as if everything was so inconsequential to her. Everything seemed to be too much effort, and after all, what was point? She was going to die anyway. In fact, her aneurysm could be triggered by so many things that it was safer to just stay at home, stay in bed. There was also an overwhelming sense of guilt, though this was nothing new.

Molly felt as if she had gained a new clarity, like she knew a secret no one else understood yet. Maybe you had to be dying to know. The pointlessness of life. There was no meaning. We lived, we died. All the things we cherish will die.

It was just biology.

Despite this, Molly still hoped there was a heaven despite being a non believer;anything had to be better than this. There had to be some kind of paradise. Somewhere where life was fair. Maybe thats why people believed in religion? Because they needed to believe the bad would be punished. They needed to believe that murderers, rapists and other sick people who got away with their crimes, would be punished and their maintenance of morality would be rewarded. Fairness. It was doubtful. But if she still had hope at this stage it could only help.

Molly was alone in her flat for the fourth day in a row, having finally taken use of Dr Stamford's offer of paid leave. She was in bed, though not asleep; she just laid there thinking, lamenting. The curtains were closed though it was mid day. Molly was willing herself not to sleep despite feeling unbelievably tired. She had had another dream a couple of days ago. In it, she had been on the tube waiting for a train when she suddenly died. The difference this time was that instead of the scene changing she stayed there, watching as people looked at her warily, then slowly made their way over to her, and finally started screaming. She watched at an unknown vantage point as they tried and failed to do CPR. She'd woken up already crying.

But that was how it would be in a respect; she'd drop and die.

Just to add to her misery, at least in Molly's opinion, Sherlock had begun to text her more frequently; three times in the past four days.

Wednesday 7th 11.12 am

From Sherlock Holmes

You've gone on leave.

Thursday 8th 1.23pm

Your replacement is completely incompetent.

She had replied a quick sorry to that, to which he didn't reply.

Friday 9th 9.43 pm

Dr Brand is looking for you.

She didn't reply. She had also recieved some texts from John, asking how she was, offering help. She appreciated the gesture. They hadn't exactly been friends after all. She'd always been fixated on Sherlock. Yet since he had found her on the floor of the lab that day he had been so good. John was just a naturally good person. She was shallow. She felt guilty for completely side stepping him all these years, all because he wasn't a genius.

She felt guilty in general.

In all honesty, his sudden interest now was more painful than pleasing. She couldn't help but think how ironic it was that he cared now when she was dying; As if her short life expectancy made her interesting. Maybe it did.

He probably wanted to observe her, and make deductions for a study. He always did like to experiment. Yes he had these incredble moments of humanity, where he was kind and conisderate. But he was a scientist to the core. She was just a subject. Subconsciously, she ran a hand over her now scabbing tattoo. He had been so nice when she'd gotten her tattoo. Not normal people nice, but Sherlock's version of nice.

He'd held her hand.

Molly was too absorbed in her lamenting to hear the knock on the door, and even if she had she would have ignored it. Nor did she hear the sound of a bobby pin unlocking her front door.

Molly felt the all too familiar prick of tears, and squeezed her eyes shut instinctively, biting down on her quivering lip against the waves of pain washing over her. Why did every bit of her hurt so much?

'Molly?'

She didn't move, except to sigh deeply. She wondered idly if hallucinations were a symptom of depression too. She wiggled further into the covers.

'Molly, this isn't a hullcination.'

She wondered how he knew she was thinking that. She opened her eyes and looked at the man at the end of her bed. Sherlock. Speak of the devil. Not even a month ago she would have given anything to be in this position, but in that moment she wanted nothing more than for him to go. She wanted to be alone. She did note, however, that he looked oddly frazzled.

'How did you get in?' she asked dully, not at all like herself, as she sat up in the bed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'This is hardly Fort Knox, even if it does resemble it' he answered dryly.

Molly didn't rise to the bait. She just looked at him, and him at her. Well 'looked' wasn't exactly right. He was deducing her, and she didn't have the energy to care, and he knew it. He was slower than normal, more deliberate; she could tell by his eyes. The second his eyes met hers she stirred.

'You didn't see Dr Brand last night.'

Why did he know everything? Why was he choosing to care?

'Erm Sherlock-'

'You cut your hair. That one less thing off your bucket list.' Sherlock looked mildly impressed. and a little bit... put out?

'S..Sherlock, I'm not well, could you please-'

'You're fine Molly, you're just-'

'Since when has dying been constituted as fine?' she spat vemously. Sherlock didn't react.

'You're not dying. You're just going to die.'

'Same thing' she replied with a shrug tired.

Either way she was waiting for death just like her parents before her. Eyes fixed unseeingly on the wall, Molly's eyes filled with tears again.

Sherlock's face softened uncomfortably.

'This stage is the hardest' he said to her, pulling her back to the present.

Like he knew.

She was one step closer to death. Maybe she shouldn't have cut her hair. The previously quiet malevolant voice in her head told her it wouldn't have made any difference anyway. Why couldn't it be acceptance already she thought, tears spilling down her cheeks. Molly kept her eyes on the wall, though her tears blurred the view. She took a shaky deep breath. Crying in front of Sherlock Holmes. How pathetic. He didn't move, he just stood observing her stoically. He then sighed.

'Molly crying won't help.'

Molly's breathing came out in shallow shots, her hands shaking.

'There is nothing worse than self pity Molly' Sherlock said exasperatedly, before realising his words. He immediately went to apologize but it was too late.

Molly looked at him now, eyes bright , face stained red, tears only slowing a fraction. Her face was angled to the side a little, mouth open in surprise.

'You really don't understand it do you?' she said, voice thick with tears and surprise.

'Mol-'

'You always say such thoughtless things'

'I am-'

'You don't know how this feels!' she cried at him, face contorted, cheeks red, heart broken.

He always acted like he knew everything. But he didn't. She knew that now. She deluded herself with her hero worship.

He hadn't even gotten past bargaining.

No one spoke for a minute, Molly still in a state of shock at her realisation.

'I will pity me. Because no one else will.' she told him numbly. 'I don't have any family left, or any friends.' - her voice hitched a little - 'My mum died when I was little. My dad died before I could even accomplish anything. I have a dead end job thats an embarrassment to even tell people. My first boyfriend dumped me two days after I gave him my virginity. The next one left me. And I have spent the last five years in love with someone who sees me as a resource, even when I risked my career for him.' Sherlock mouth unconsciously opened a little. 'And now i'm going to die, with absolutely no one with me, and without doing half the things I wanted. So, Sherlock Holmes, i will pity me. Because i deserve to be pitied. I wasted years. And it hurts so much. God, I feel so, so guilty about it.' Molly finished, voice breaking, tears streaming down her face, though she made sure to meet him dead on in the eyes.

Sherlock had paled somewhere during her speech. And she liked it. Because she was right, and he would accept it. She didn't even care that she had just admitted to being in love with him. He knew anyway, and had made the conscious decision to never mention it. She knew how he felt.

Yet she hoped desperately he would refute her claims.

Finally he spoke, though his voice was a little hoarse.

'You're life isn't-'

But she couldn't help herself. Now she'd started, Molly had to finish, say it all.

'Yes it is. What can I really do with an anuerysm? Anything could set it off. I can't really live. The second Dr Stamford told me I was dying, I really died. Cause I can't really live. I cant do anything. I can't really love anything. I can't have a baby or do anything I wanted. Its not feasible.' She wiped her nose quickly, and met his eyes again.

'You know they love their mothers unconditionally? Babies i mean. I deserved that kind of love.' Her heart physically ached at her words, her mind filling with now unwanted images of her actually living. A baby, a husband, even Toby.

She could've been happy.

Unadulterated, untainted happy. But she had wasted time. In fact no, she hadn't wasted time. Her time had been taken from her.

She rounded to Sherlock, looking at him sadly. His expression was undistinguishable. She continued as Sherlock seemed to be rooted in silence.

'You don't get it. And I don't know why. Its never bothered me before. But it does now. Because anyone else would let me cry, and let me scream. But you're dead inside, and you know what? I pity you. I PITY YOU!' she screamed at him as loud as she could, the face screwed up in anger.

She waited for him to leave, or for her own embarrassment to kick in with a blush. Neither happened.

Sherlock looked stunned. He closed his eyes for a moment, before looking at Molly regretfully.

'I'm really sorry Molly'

'I know' she said with a grimly.

God she was tired. So very tired. Just because she wanted to, she leaned her head against Sherlock's shoulder, closing her eyes. She could feel his tension, and then, just as she made to get up, she felt his arm stiffly wrap around her.

He was trying. Even after what she had said.

Those incredible moments where he showed his humanity; and it hurt her.

She cried on his shoulder until she fell asleep.

...

It was early in the morning, she could tell from the grey light streaming through her curtains. Her face felt tight, almost swollen. A side effect from the tears. And then she remembered. Molly sat up quickly, searching. But he was gone.