Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!
Chapter Seven
Strength in the Frailty
Molly spent more time than she'd care to admit just sitting up in the bed, working up the energy to scoot to the edge and put her feet on the cold wood floor.
She stood, but instantly regretted it as her knees buckled and her legs slid out from under her. She let out a soft whine as her shins banged on the hard floor. The legs on her pajama bottoms did nothing to soften the blow.
She stayed there for a bit, trying to get her heart to stop beating so loudly. Now that she'd tried to move, she realized how utterly exhausted she was, even after al lthe sleep she'd seemed to have gotten. Then again, that hadn't been a proper rest.
Four days. Had she really been out that long?
She ground her teeth together, and gripped the edge of the bed to hoist herself up. She refused to wait for help. She could bloody well walk herself.
Her legs were shaky under her, but she gripped the bed post until she was reasonably certain that she'd stay upright. She managed, just barely, as she let go.
It was slower than she would have liked, but she managed to lift one foot in front of the other, until she was standing in the door frame, leaning against it. Again, her heart was beating fast. It felt as though she'd just run a marathon, and it wasn't even over yet.
She paled slightly, looking out on the flight of stairs. When she got here, the twenty steps had been nothing. Now, she may as well have been descending the steps of the great wall of China. Okay, that may have been a stretch, but it still seemed daunting, looking at it now.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed away from the door frame, and quickly wrapped her fingers around the banister. Still, she hesitated at the top of the stairs. Falling would not be very pleasant from up here.
Staying up here would be ridiculous though.
Swallowing, she took the first tentative step.
Great. Only nineteen more to go.
Relax, you can do this Molly. It's just a few steps.
At a snail's pace, she took the rest of the steps. She had to pause to stop her legs from shaking occasionally, but she kept moving step by slow, agonizing step.
Thankfully, in her mind at least, Sherlock wasn't there to see any more of her weakness. She could hear him moving around in what she could only assume to be the kitchen.
Reaching the bottom of the steps, she paused, and allowed herself to sit down on the last step. She felt drained, pathetic and weak in the face of a few measly stairs. It was ridiculous. She was stronger than this.
Letting out an aggravated huff, Molly forced herself back to her feet using the banister to pull herself up, just as she had with the bedpost.
With stiff limbs, she walked into the kitchen, keeping her gaze down to watch her steps until she reached the table and was able to take a proper seat in one of the dining chairs.
She could hear Sherlock in the room, but she was focused on not slumping against the table, so she didn't see him come up to her until the white Styrofoam tray was placed in front of her. She jerked away from it instinctively, and the fast motion left her almost nauseous. At the same time, the scents wafting up from the tray made her salivate, making her realize how long it had been since she'd eaten any sort of good meal.
She looked up at Sherlock as he stepped away, then back down at the food in front of her. It was Chinese, some sort of takeaway. She couldn't think of what the dish was called at the moment, but it looked delicious, chunks of seasoned chicken mixed with water chestnuts, baby corns, onions, carrots, and broccoli, sitting on a bed of sticky rice. Sitting on top of it all were the chopsticks, but she knew she wouldn't have the coordination to eat properly with them.
She picked up the useless utensils and frowned as she set them aside. Who honestly thought two sticks were a viable eating implement? Still, she didn't want to eat with her hands like some animal. She'd done much too much of that already.
Before she could voice any of her thoughts, a cup was placed in front of her as well, and a fork was held expectantly out to her. She took it hesitantly, barely looking up at Sherlock.
"Thank you." She said softly, looking back down at her food as she began to pick at it lightly. Despite her hunger, she didn't want to immediately gorge herself. If she did, she was certain it would make her sick. It was never good to go from eating barely anything to eating a lot all at once. It even killed some people whose stomachs couldn't handle it and ruptured.
And how exactly do I know that?
The look of confusion on her face must have shown something, because Sherlock, who'd claimed his own seat at the other side of the table to eat his forced meal, set his chopsticks aside and turned his full attention on her. "What is it?"
Molly swallowed her current bite of food hastily, and washed it down with a quick sip of her drink - a light tea with plenty of milk and sugar - to stall. Even so, her cheeks were a bit red, having his analytical gaze suddenly turned on her again.
She had to look down before replying. "It's silly, really... just a little odd fact. I don't even know where I learned it."
"What fact? It may seem banal to you, but it could be very important." He leaned forward and had his elbows on the table. His hands were together and his finger tips were pressed to his lips.
"It's just that... If someone who doesn't eat for a long time suddenly eats a lot all at once, there's a chance that they could die due to a tearing in the stomach, causing the contents of the stomach, whatever was eaten and the acid inside, to spread rapidly to vital organs." It sounded even more gruesome than when it was just a thought. She waited for the inevitable odd look. After all, what kind of person would have such strange, disgusting thoughts while they're eating?
Instead, Sherlock just smirked, and leaned back in his chair. "You're right. It is merely a random tidbit, though it does help in one aspect - I can confirm that you are in the medical field, though I'd already suspected as much from the small cuts on the tips of your fingers where the scalpel slipped. Finish your meal Molly." With the final statement, Sherlock stood and went into the drawing room, out of sight, leaving Molly to her thoughts.
Medical. She's always been able to remember the scent of rubbing alcohol, and of rubber gloves. Well, it was well known that the sense of smell, even in betas, was the best sense and had the longest memory. She looked down at her hand, at the pad of her right index finger, and ran the pad of her thumb across the small scars there. They were rough, but somehow comforting. It felt like a familiar gesture. Maybe she had made it often back when she had worked.
She wasn't much for eating anymore, so she stood carefully. She felt a bit stronger now thanks to the meal, however small it was, so she was able to step away from the table without using anything to support herself. She closed the food up, and, noticing that Sherlock had left his open as well and seemed to have no plan to eat any more anytime soon, she gathered his up as well and moved to stick it in the fridge.
The sight that greeted her as she opened up the door should have revolted her. Instead, she stared calmly at the severed leg for a moment, before setting the containers on the clean shelf above it, and shutting it. She couldn't say why the appendage didn't bother her more, but something told her it was - mostly - innocuous, aside from the slightly rotten smell.
Pleased to be able to move a bit, she collected their silverware and cups, and rinsed them off before placing them in the sink. It felt good to do something so simple, so normal again.
Smiling softly at her small accomplishments, she wandered into the drawing room, pausing slightly as she saw Sherlock in the same position he'd been in the last time she was in here, laying down on the couch with his hands steepled and his fingertips against his lips.
Must be his thinking position or something. She thought absentmindedly, sitting down in one of the available arm chairs and pulling her legs up to cradle them as she watched him.
She felt drawn to him, and the more she looked, the more she thought she recognized him from somewhere. If only she could pin exactly where. Maybe she was imagining things, and they'd never met. Maybe she was clinging to an imagined past. She didn't know. She just knew that, as she watched him deep in thought, she felt safe.
Chapter 7 done! Very domestic, don't you think? :3
Thank you soo much to the reviewers, Renassiancebooklover108, MorbidbyDefault, Rose of Zakarisz, IceQueenForLive, MizJoely, Aquitaine85, Freewaygirl, cshorey100, NiceNipps, and Starcrier. You all are wonderful!
And thanks to Cumberburch, my wonderful Beta!
Until Next Time! :*
