Okay, this is a lot shorter and definitely not what I really wanted to upload as chapter four, but alas that's what you're getting. Life has been very hectic lately and I would take a few more days to upload the chapter I really want, but I'm leaving for Florida for a week in a few hours and I promised an update. Hopefully you guys still enjoy the chapter.

Chapter 4

Molly struggled with herself all day, but not in the typical way. She didn't quite feel jealous of a cadaver on her table waiting to be examined (preferably one that didn't have an identity – one she could relate to). No, she felt more like she could pull her hair out from all the thinking, all the arguing with herself. John's suggestion left her with some serious thinking to do. Thinking that she didn't necessarily want to do. Hadn't Sherlock plagued her thoughts enough for one lifetime? Now she had to figure out what Sherlock had to do with her being in her home, treated by John and Mary rather than being in a hospital being treated by whomever would have been assigned to her. She felt fairly certain in assessing that it wasn't because John and Mary would have rather treated her than anyone else.

Sherlock hadn't even said too much to her when he was here with her, let alone enough to clue her in as to why they didn't just cart her off to a facility or the hospital. Anyone else on the planet would have done that: John would have, Mary would have. But why didn't Sherlock? She remembered he said something about the two of them being similar, and she promptly denied the motion. It seemed to be logical and reasonable at the time, but now she was starting to think there was more behind his words than she had originally thought. He used drugs recreationally, when he got bored. She indulged in her activity solely to pass time until she died. She didn't necessarily have to be bored to do it; she could just feel a certain inclination to do something to herself. It made her feel right. Well, not right… just better. It reminded her she could feel. She doubted that's why Sherlock dabbled in drugs. She also had her suspicions that he used the drugs to die. His intentions were different. Right?

A sudden motion on her bed pulled her from her thoughts of Sherlock and the intentions of those around her. She turned over onto her side to see that Toby had found his way back up to the bed and happily settled next to her, perfectly content in his own little cat world. She lay there simply staring at him and his pale grey Tabby coat, fantasizing about what it would be like if she were to be happy in her own life. To be worry free and just go with the flow of things, take what life gives her with a smile and at least a little dignity. She tried to imagine what it would be like to not have the scars that she does. Emotional, physical, and otherwise. Perhaps if she had a different vice, it would be easier to escape the demons that cutting left upon her. Maybe if I change my vice, people would stop noticing when I use it or at least it won't be as obvious if I slip up, she thought.

She started to curl up around Toby and he snuggled into her as she began to mindlessly pet the cat as she thought more about changing her vices. She knew she didn't want to give up horrible things completely; they acted as almost a safety net for her. When everything else fell apart, at least she had cutting. But now with her "friends" around her and their knowledge of it, she didn't even have that. When one vice ceases to be possible pick up another, right? But which vice to pick? Drinking? Smoking? Heroin? Cocaine? She thought about it endlessly until she drifted off to sleep.

The first thing she heard was a metallic clink as she took her first step. She cautiously took another step forward, once again hearing a clink as she did so. She thought for a moment that perhaps she was wearing heels, but suddenly realized she was barefoot. Looking around the cold, damp room, she could barely see anything; it was too poorly lit to see anything of importance. She could see about half a foot in front of her, but kept walking anyway. She took a few more steps and found herself standing in front of a coffin. Out of morbid curiosity, she opened the oak resting place to find a bed of knives underneath the lid. When she looked back up from the coffin, she found herself looking at herself. Not a reflection of herself, but another materialization of herself. An exact replica of herself. She looked around her, confused, only to find herself surrounded by herself. They started inching closer to her.

"Go on, Molly," They said. "You dug your own grave, now lie in it."

She looked at them even more baffled now than she was before. What did they mean by that? She'll admit she did kind of dig her own grave, but it's not like she used knives to do the deed. She had a few times, but it didn't feel personal enough. It didn't feel like she was truly doing it. Why was her grave, then, filled with knives? Because of how she started her habit with various blades? Because lying in a coffin filled with knives would more easily cut into all the places she already had?

The other Mollys were quickly moving in on her chanting, "No one to save you from yourself," over and over until she found it escaping her own lips as well. When they were all so close to her she felt she could no longer breathe, the only place she could go was the coffin. By the looks of it, she could only either go in voluntarily or she would be put in by the others. No matter what, she ended up in that grave and she knew it. The only debate there was was whether or not she would go down without a fight. Fighting, though, seemed pointless since no matter what she would end up with the metal blades that taunted her ruthlessly. So, she saved everyone else the time and energy of forcing her in by lying in it herself.

She expected the pain of the knives and blades to be more forceful, piercing through every inch of her skin. Instead, she felt nothing. Literally nothing. She didn't even feel the bottom of her coffin. She was floating, suspended in space. Only, she wasn't exactly floating; she was falling. She didn't know how far she had fallen or for how long she had been falling for. Hell, she didn't even know if she would ever stop falling. There was no bottom to be seen and there wasn't even an opening at the top anymore. She assumed that this would ultimately lead to her demise, which she accepted with grace, only to be once again reacquainted with the ground.

Miraculously, she survived. It's not that the ground was cushioned or that something broke the fall. No, it was nothing like that; she hit concrete, she just didn't die. She remained on the floor for a few more seconds with her eyes shut as if expecting pain, but again no pain ensued.

When she opened her eyes, she expected a dark room like the one she had been in before, but this room was brightly lit. Well, not brightly lit by most people's standards, just brightly lit in comparison to the prior place. She looked around as if she expected to recognize where she was, but she didn't. There wasn't really anything where she was, and she didn't dare to call it a room because it wasn't. It was just a space. There was no particular source that the light was coming from either.

She quit searching for perhaps thirty seconds to inspect her body from the fall, which somehow remained intact and unharmed. In those thirty seconds that her eyes were averted from her surroundings, things started to appear. By the time she looked up from her body and began paying attention to the room again, she noticed what had appeared. Only, they weren't what's. They were who's. Standing before her were the people that she had been so desperately trying to push away in real life: Sherlock, Mary, and John.

They stepped closer to her, but not in a threatening way like the Mollys of the other room had. They approached cautiously as if approaching a murder victim or a wounded animal. Sherlock was the first to offer her a hand to help her up. She looked at it, unsure if she should take it or not. After all, there was nothing prohibiting her from getting up herself. On the other hand, she should probably take advantage of the shred of kindness Sherlock was uncharacteristically offering. The only problem was that when she took his hand, he recoiled as if he was hurt simply by her touch. The same thing happened when John and Mary offered their help.

What was wrong with her? She looked at her hands to make sure they hadn't turned into something weird like thorns or something, but they looked completely normal. Just five-fingered, snow white hands. She sighed, defeated. She attempted to run her fingers through her hair, only to find out that her touch hurt her as well. Then she figured out why the others flinched at her touch. It wasn't that it was a sharp, blade-esque feeling. It's that it was a burning sensation that felt hot enough to burn through anything.

She looked back up at her friends and they did nothing. They didn't move, they didn't speak, and she could have sworn they weren't even breathing. She got up on her own and attempted to take just one small step towards them. The good news was that she moved. The bad news was that Sherlock, John, and Mary did as well. As soon as she took one step towards them, they took one step away from her. It hurt her, but she understood why they did it. They didn't want to get hurt; neither did she, though.

She scuttled backwards, but they followed her. It was as if they didn't want to be around her in fear that she would hurt them, yet they still wanted her. It was confusing to say the least for the brown-haired beauty. She looked at her hands for a couple of seconds; not too long by her standards, but apparently long enough for looks of concern to cross the trio's faces. It almost gave Molly a sense of hopefulness, but that soon faded when she realized there was nothing for her to do. She couldn't touch them, they couldn't touch her, she couldn't exactly flee because there was nowhere to go, but she had to get out. She couldn't stay in here one second longer and she could only see one solution.

She took her hand and pressed it against her chest, over her heart. The pain was terrible. It was as if she was being lit on fire and sacrificed to Satan. She couldn't help but let the loud, blood-curdling scream escape her lips. The three others tried to take a step closer to her for whatever reason, but she managed to scream out, "Don't!" as the pain intensified and eventually brought her to what she assumed was her ultimate demise.

She awoke with a start, screaming bloody murder, all of which easily caught John's attention. He rushed to her side, checking to see if she was all right. He checked her pulse and all of her vitals. When he was done, she rolled on her side away from him. She couldn't deal with him right now or anyone really. With all that was going on inside her head, she didn't want to risk something such as confusing her nightmares with reality. It's happened to her before with results that weren't of the best variety. She already felt like a monster, thanks to her life and her nightmares, and she didn't want to actually become one. To actually hurt someone else.

She felt something warm and wet slide down her face; she was crying and she hadn't even realized it. She turned her face into a pillow and shut her eyes tightly as if that would stop the tears. She tried to keep her screams internal, but a small one escaped. Her shakes became more evident, and her breathing picked up. She felt ridiculous for crying. She didn't have much of a reason to be doing so. She felt John sit down on the bed and try to comfort her, but when he went to touch her she practically jumped out of the bed.

"Please. Don't. I don't want to hurt you," Molly choked out in between sobs.

"Molly, that's ridiculous. You're like 100 pounds; I doubt you can harm me," John reassured her.

He went towards her again, not afraid of her and rightfully so. He was much larger, much stronger than her. He had no real reason to think she could hurt him physically. He reached out for her once more, only to be slapped away. She didn't exactly mean to hit him per se, but if that's what she had to do, then she would do just that. He only made it worse by trying to hug her. She kicked at him, scratched at him. He simply grabbed at one of her arms and twisted it behind her back to detain her. He grabbed the other one as well, but that didn't impede her from trying to win this fight that only she thought they were having despite her intensified sobs.

John could her the agony in her as the sobs came out. It pained him to hear his friend in such emotional torment. He didn't know what brought her to this point or even how long she's been in this state, but he was determined to figure it out. She, however, did not wish to partake in letting him into her world, but after the bombshell at the bathroom, he was also a tad scared of what else would come out; he didn't know how he could help her realistically with much of what she could say to him. He wasn't qualified for this as a doctor. But, I'm trying to be here as a friend, not a doctor, he reminded himself. All he had to do was be here, listen. That's what friends do in these types of situations, and it was painfully evident that she felt she didn't have that. No matter what she said, he was fixed to stay by her when he could. He was going to prove to her she had at least one friend, goddammit!

Eventually, she calmed down enough to stop trying to fight him, but not enough to stop her incessant cries. Much to his surprise when he let go of her arms she didn't run, she turned to him, burying her head in his chest crying into him. Not that he was complaining, he was rather happy that she was letting her pain out in any form that didn't involve putting herself in danger. He held her closer and stroked her hair in a lame attempt to get her calmer. Her body shook and seemed abnormally small, even next to his short stature. Maybe it was because he wasn't used to such proximity to her. Or maybe it was just her emotions being so physically ailing to her. Whatever it was only made him want to protect the small, fragile flower that she was even more than he already did.

"Come, Molly. Let's get you back to the bed," he told her as she began to cease crying. He got her back into the bed where she proceeded to turn away from John and bury herself in the blankets, head face down on her pillow. "You should eat something, Molly. I'll make you something," he offered.

"I'm not hungry, thanks."

"It's not healthy to skip meals and such."

"Yes, because clearly I care about that," she said as she laughed. "Look at this situation, John. The only reason you're here is because I tried to kill myself. So, right now you're only kidding yourself saying those things like that. The only question is why? Why are you even bothering? Why are you concerned?"

He looked onto her eyes that were suddenly very harsh, questioning, and unrelenting. She looked as if she was trying to tear into his soul and drag the answer out of him. He supposed it was his turn to come clean, just a little. He wasn't one to lie in the first place. He sighed and sat on the bed next to Molly in preparation.

"You remind me a little too much of my sister, Harry. She is an alcoholic, destroying her life in every fashion of the term. She threw away her life and there wasn't anything I could do about it. I'm not going to watch you do the same. I know you don't think of us as friends or maybe even as acquaintances, but whether you like it or not you are family, Molly Hooper."

"And whether you like it or not you are foolish, John Watson. For once, Sherlock was right in regards to sentiment and emotion. It is a weakness and it is utterly idiotic. Back out now while you can before you're brought nothing but pain," she warned.

John opened his mouth to argue with her further, but thought better of it. He didn't want to run the chance of making her feel worse. God only knows what else she would do to herself. There didn't seem to be too many options left as she's already indulged in some of the deadlier ones and definitely the deadliest of all. What was left for her to do to herself? He knew the answers, but still didn't want to see her spiral into other indulgences she may decide on.

He got up off the bed, noticing that she had drifted off to sleep once again, and moved over to the chair once more. He sat there looking at his emotionally and physically drained female companion. She looked peaceful when she was sleeping, like she could finally not have to face her reality and/or whatever it was that made her the way she was. However, he knew that was unlikely to be the case given her outburst after waking up just a short while beforehand. But still, there was something about her sleeping form that made John think that maybe, just maybe, her brain allowed her freedom from herself occasionally. The way she breathed seemed to be normal, as if she were just another person, not haunted by demons. As if she was happy. As if she was herself.

But that's the thing: he knew that even when she was awake, even when she was depressed and unhappy, even when she was leaving permanent marks on herself she was being herself. That's who she was, deep down. He knew in his brain that all the smiles in the lab, all the friendly conversations, all the pleasantries during holidays and/or at parties were all in one way or another lies. He knew she was just masking this side of her. The side that she wished nobody had discovered. He knew this in his brain, yet his heart was trying to betray him. His heart wanted that Molly back. The one who smiled all the time, the one whose face would light up when Sherlock walked into a room, the one who would laugh and make polite conversation with anyone that needed it or desired it. The Molly that he saw when looking at her sleeping being.

He wasn't sure what made him angrier. The fact that the Molly he thought he knew was a lie or the fact that Molly actually felt this way about herself and felt the need to do these self-destructive things. It was irrational to feel this way, but it's how he felt nonetheless. There wasn't something he could just say to her to make her feel better and have everything go back to normal. There wasn't anything he could really do. It was going to be a long and tedious process to get things back to the way they all knew, to get her to be better and that's the part that frustrated him the most. While he was far better at being patient than Sherlock was, he was by no means a patient man.

All he really wanted right now was somewhere to start the process, but with Molly being so closed off he hadn't a clue. He had one piece of information to work with and he didn't know what to do with it. He knew her parents had died some time ago and that could contribute to the way she feels now, the way she views herself. Without her cooperation, though, there wasn't much he could do with this. There was definitely more to the story, that much he was sure of.

He leaned back, covering his face with is hands. He let out a heavy sigh. It was truly difficult for him to grasp how she was feeling the way she did. He's never really truly felt the way she so evidently did, so how was he to understand? The closest experience he has had with anything like this was his PTSD when he returned from Afghanistan. He also was tortured, but clearly not as much as she. He had seen cases such as hers while at war; fellow comrades facing the same overall struggle as she was. Dealing with losing friends, not having their families, not knowing what to do. Granted he never actually worked with them, but he had seen it before.

Why couldn't she understand that there were people around her who loved and cared for her? Was it such a difficult concept for her to comprehend that she was not alone, as she thought she was? Clearly, she cared enough for those around her to put on her happy-go-lucky façade, so how could she not know that those same people reciprocated those feelings? Unless that's not why she put on the façade. Perhaps she did it for the sole purpose of protecting herself, to not let her secret out. She obviously didn't want help with it, so it would make sense. Was she really that self-centred though? He thought that at least part of why she had masked her pain was out of love for her friends.

In a way, she reminded him of Sherlock. The mysterious man who never lets anyone know much of him, who hides everything. He dealt with his pain in his own way and refused to let anyone else interfere with it. The man with a troubled past and his own vices. The man who went through life protecting those he loves by becoming stoic, emotionless. The man with no regard for his own well-being or life. The man who had been caught several times with his vices. The man whose slip up made him better. John only hoped that Molly's slip up would also better her.

The more he thought about it, the more he realised their differences as well. Sherlock started as a confused boy, not knowing what he had been getting into. Molly also most likely started young, probably after her parents passed on, but the dissimilarity was she knew what she was doing. It wasn't like she was experimenting and dabbling in drugs like the consulting detective had done. No, she knew full well that she was harming herself and that she was going down a terrible path. She knew how this would end for her. She knew, plain and simple. She didn't make the mistake of a teenager, she made a fully informed decision.

He snapped out of his thoughts, only becoming more enraged and confused with them. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly three thirty. He had to be off to work soon. He just hoped that Sherlock would be back in time to take over Molly watch. Just on cue, he received a text message from his curly headed best friend.

On my way back. Be there in fifteen. –SH

He sighed in instant relief as he knew Mary wouldn't be coming home from her shift until at least five. Sherlock never had definite hours; he tended to come and go as he pleased. The man never seemed to rest, nut today John was glad that Sherlock wouldn't be gone until he decided to bless them with his presence. Knowing him, he probably knew what time John had to be to the hospital for work and purposely decided to return to Molly's flat by that time. His shift started at four thirty and he had to leave by four at the latest.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was back at the flat for Molly.

"She's not in a very forgiving or forthcoming mood, mate," John warned him. "She woke up around one, isn't quite talkative, hasn't eaten or drank anything, and is quite temperamental."

"I can handle it," Sherlock assured him.

"Don't say anything to make it worse, you git. Don't fuck up the situation more than it already is," he said. And with that, the good doctor left the detective and the pathologist alone, without her knowing.

Sherlock took his seat in the chair next to the window that had previously been occupied by his partner. He, like the previous watcher, observed Molly. Her breathing appeared to be steady and her colour (the little colour she had in the first place) seemed to be returning. Some stray hair had fallen into her face, giving her a slight little veil, shielding her from the rest of the world. He wanted to push the strays back to where they belonged, but deemed it unnecessary and inappropriate. Other than that, his dear pathologist looked fine. Well, as fine as someone in her position and condition could be.

However, this was only at first glance. If you looked closer, really observed her, you could see her troubles even in her sleep. Her legs were twitching in her sleep suggesting something awful in her dreams. She let out small whimpers as well also suggesting a nightmare. Just then, Sherlock noticed a few tears start to stream down her face. She also began to murmur and scream just a tad.

That's when Sherlock decided it was time to interfere. He walked over to the bed and began to shake her gently in an attempt to wake her up. When that didn't work, he tried calling out her name. Her eyes flew open and she bolted up, breathing heavily clearly in a panic. It took her a minute, but she managed to regulate her breathing and calm down enough to take in her surroundings, becoming disappointed when she saw who was beside her.

"You're here?"

"Yes, John had to leave for work and we weren't going to leave you alone," Sherlock explained.

"Right, because God forbid I control my own life and whatnot," molly muttered under her breath.

"Molly-," Sherlock drew out carefully, in a low baritone voice, but he never got to finish the thought as she changed the subject.

"John told me you went out on your case. Did you find out anything about the Jane Doe?"

Sherlock, delighted with the subject she chose to switch to, and a tad surprised to say the least, answered her question, "Why, yes. I managed to discover her identity. Turns out someone did know her."

"Well?"

"Her name was Kiera Estes," he told her and she visibly paled.

Looking at the man in front of her with dull, sad eyes she said, "I knew her."