A Beautiful Mind
Summary: Amnesia is always romanticized in Hollywood, but there's nothing romantic about losing your memory after a traumatic brain injury. Sherlock Holmes can't remember much from the last decade, but he's willing to spend the rest of his life committing the people he once knew into his memory.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
All Chapter Titles have been inspired by the film score from A Beautiful Mind.
Chapter Seven: Real or Imagined?
"Sometimes I watch you work and when you're not looking—no! That sounds weird."
Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the mirror hanging over his fireplace. Every few minutes he would pause, ruffle his curls, and stare at his reflection before trying to say something witty and clever to ask Molly Hooper out on a date.
So far he had been extremely unsuccessful, both in practice and performance, and he spent nearly every waking moment thinking about his failed attempts. "I wish she wasn't so pretty and smart!" he shouted suddenly, glaring at his reflection. "And kind! And really good at her job! Maybe then I wouldn't even like her!"
"Hoo-hoo, Sherlock? Do you have a visitor?"
"No Hudders," Sherlock said, turning dejectedly away from his mirror and dropping down into his seat. "I don't have a visitor."
"Well I heard all that shouting and you haven't stopped moving since you woke up this morning!" Mrs. Hudson walked into 221B with a tea tray. "Have some tea and a sandwich. It'll make you feel better."
"I don't think I'll ever feel better."
"You still have that headache?"
Sherlock sighed. Yes, he still had the headache, but he was so accustomed to the pain that it really didn't bother him anymore. His doctors kept encouraging him to take it easy even though it had been months and not much memory returned other than his relationship with Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade. What was causing him the most problem now was his inability to look Molly Hooper in the eye and ask her for coffee.
"Sherlock?"
"Sorry! Yes, headaches. They just won't go away."
A week later, Sherlock finally felt like he had not only the energy, but the courage to go to St. Bart's and ask Molly out for coffee. Earlier in the week, he met her in the lab while working with Lestrade and successfully asked her about her day and her evening from the night before with minimal stuttering but a few aborted attempts at prolonged eye contact. Right when he thought he could get out the words, "Would you like to have a coffee with me?", he had to take a break because the pain in his head started to quadruple and he needed to have a seat.
He was beginning to think that his headaches were worse when he was feeling anxious. He made note in his notebook to work on his anxiety and to talk to his therapist about it.
But when Sherlock changed out of his pajamas and into one of the many suits he had in his closet, donning a handsome purple shirt with black slacks and a black jacket, John and Mary Watson burst into his flat. When Sherlock told them that he was planning on finally going to the hospital and asking Molly out, they refused to move from the doorway and gave excuses.
For the first time that Sherlock could remember, he was losing his patience.
"Mate, I just don't think it's a good idea to go to Bart's today."
"Why? Why is everyone trying to keep me from the hospital? Mycroft refused to send a driver. Greg wanted to work a burglary case that an infant could solve, and even Mrs. Hudson tried dragging me to lunch with the neighbor—I forget her name. Turner? I think. And now you and Mary are literally blocking the doorway out of my flat and refusing to let me out. I am a grown man, and even though I'm suffering from a traumatic brain injury does not mean you can keep me trapped in my flat! Now please excuse me, and let me go!"
Sherlock stood his ground and glared at his friends until Mary put a hand on John's shoulder. "John, we can't keep him from her."
"I know, but not today!"
Sherlock watched as John and Mary stared at each other, and finally John deflated, shuffling away from the door. "Go ahead."
"Thank you."
Without looking back, Sherlock marched down the stairs and out of his flat. He could hear John and Mary walking down the steps and meeting with Mrs. Hudson, and even though he was curious as to why all of his friends and even his brother were fighting him, he chose not to listen and instead make his way to what he affectionately started calling his "home away from home", St. Bart's.
He managed to get a cab rather easily, and he spent the entire ride rehearsing their conversation. He had it all written down in his notebook, but he had gone over it so many times that it was now memorized.
-Greet Molly.
-Ask her about her day.
-If she asks about my day, tell her about it.
-Ask her about her current workload.
-If she asks about my work, which she will because she is very polite and kind, tell her about the case Greg just closed about a dead woman's missing cats. Molly likes cats, I think.
-Ask Molly to coffee. If she doesn't like coffee, tea. If she doesn't like tea, as a last resort, dinner. Dinner with Angelo. Not with Angelo, but at Angelo's.
-If Molly says yes, remember to thank her and smile. Do not panic.
-If Molly says no, don't run away. Apologize for bothering her. Do not panic.
-If you panic, your headache will erupt and you might faint, which would be embarrassing.
When the cab stopped outside of St. Bart's, Sherlock gave the cabbie money and jumped out of the vehicle. He smoothed his sweating palms on his long coat and then shoved his hands in his pockets. Normally at this time if Molly wasn't working on an autopsy, she would be in the lab. So Sherlock, with his courage fading and his heart pounding and his hands sweating and his mouth suddenly dry, made his way to the lab.
Just as he was expecting, Molly was in the lab. He stared at her for a few moments, watching as she scrunched up her nose and narrowed her eyes at a file in her hands—Must be lab results she wasn't expecting. She's busy. I should go. Maybe next time. Tomorrow. Or never. Never sounds great. Because I'm a coward with a broken brain and—
"Sherlock?"
"Bugger," he breathed, blinking rapidly when he saw Molly staring at him concerned.
Sherlock opened the door and stepped into the room, but didn't make it all the way inside before he blurted out, "Coffee or tea or dinner?"
Molly just stared at him and blinked a few times and Sherlock took the time to take a heaving breath to ask her again, but coherently, then he slammed his mouth closed, wincing as his teeth clacked together when he took in her appearance.
Normally Molly always looked put together while at Bart's.
But today was different. It was her face that was different. Paler. Red rimmed eyes. Red shiny nose, as if she had been…Christ. This is why no one wanted me to come to Bart's. Molly's having a bad day and I've just made it worse. She doesn't want to date me! And I've gone and made things awkward. Maybe I can play this off as a joke…
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock jumped backwards, slamming the door closed. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could feel his blood rushing in his ears; he felt very sick. "Is everything okay?" Molly's voice floated above him as if he was suddenly under water. He shook his head in response to her question and then he was sliding down to the floor, his back still pressed against the door.
Great! I'm panicking and I'm about to pass out. How embarrassing! Why am I so broken?
"Oh Sherlock! Please don't say things like that!"
Sherlock opened his eyes in horror—when did they close?—and stared at Molly, his gut churning as he realized he was thinking out loud.
Molly was kneeling in front of him, grasping his hand tightly in hers. "Can you breathe with me?"
And for a few minutes, Sherlock and Molly sat on the floor together, breathing, with Molly clutching Sherlock's hand the entire time. He thought he was going to die of embarrassment, but by the time his breathing evened out and the panic and anxiety began to dissipate, he realized Molly wasn't looking at him with pity, only kindness and understanding. You are a Saint. "What do you need?"
Sherlock squinted, his vision blurring from the pain in his head. "You."
He was shocked when Molly's eyes scrunched up and she let out a sob, her grip on his hand wavering. He didn't know what to do, or what he did to cause this reaction from her, but he squeezed her hand, hoping that was enough.
Molly hastily wiped at her eyes with her free hand and took several deep breaths. "Okay. Okay." It was as if she was talking to herself and not him. "Sherlock," she whispered, sniffling. "What do you need right now?"
"Water," he whispered.
"And?"
"Paracetamol. And a dark room."
Slowly, Molly helped Sherlock off the floor. With one of his hands shielding his eyes, he wrapped his other hand around Molly's arm as she guided him from the lab and down to her office. Sherlock kept his eyes closed as Molly unlocked her door and opened it. She guided him to the couch, and he sat down slowly. He listened as Molly shut the door and then went to her desk. He could hear her opening a medicine bottle and shaking out a few pills into her hand. Then she crossed the room and she sat down beside him.
"Here, Sherlock."
He opened his eyes and blinked in the relative darkness, just barely making out Molly as she held her hand out to him. He took the three small pills and tossed them into his mouth, taking the water Molly offered him and swallowing them down. Then he leaned his head back and closed his eyes again.
Paracetamol only ever took the edge off his headache. He wished the medicine would take the pain away completely.
Sherlock took this time to focus on his breathing and trying to get his nerves under control. With the worst of his attack already passed, he felt confident enough that he could still ask Molly for coffee. But her answer to his question might not be something he wants to hear. Because honestly, who would want to date a wreck of a man like him?
Sherlock jumped when he felt weight on the sofa shift as Molly stood up. He opened his eyes and reached for her, blinking against the darkness. "Molly, wait!" he whispered.
"I thought you were asleep!" she said, a hint of a giggle in her voice. "I was just going to get the blanket from my desk drawer. I'll be right back."
"No…" Sherlock said, gripping her hand a bit tighter. "Please, just wait a moment?"
"Is everything alright?" When Molly settled beside him again, he took one huge breath, exhaled loudly, and then said very calmly and slowly, just like his therapist encouraged him to do, "Would you like to eat with me?"
"As in a date?"
"Yes," Sherlock whispered, but only after he nodded his head in the darkness and realized Molly probably couldn't see. His hands were already sweating, and he felt like his heart was trying to escape from his chest. He couldn't tell if his vision was going blurry, but he did feel dizzy.
"When? Tonight?"
It was like he was underwater. It took him a few seconds to understand what she said, and then he choked out, "Yes!"
There was silence, and it was deafening. Sherlock wanted to tear his hands out of her grasp and run from the dark room, never to return to the hospital again. He blinked rapidly as Molly continued to sit in silence for what felt like an agonizingly long time.
"Tonight's not good for me, sorry," she finally said, and Sherlock felt like weeping. I was right! A woman of Molly's caliber deserves someone better than me and if— "And I can't do Friday lunch or dinner either. Actually, any time this weekend. I have a bit of a holiday I forgot I scheduled. But next week is really good for me! I'm working days, so any evening, I'll probably be free."
How Molly had a holiday coming up that she forgot about, Sherlock didn't understand. But he wasn't going to think on it any longer, because Molly Hooper agreed to have a meal with him! As a date!
"Whatever works best for you? You can text me. I think you have my number?" Sherlock flopped back, resting his head on the back of the couch. The tension that he had been holding in his entire body made it ache and he felt like he could sleep for days.
"I can text you," Molly said, and Sherlock felt her stand up. "Why don't you lay down and give your head a bit of rest?" She stepped away for only a moment, and when she returned, she carefully covered him with a blanket, and Sherlock noticed her hands were trembling. "I'll be in the morgue or the lab for the rest of my shift if you need me."
Bells and alarms were ringing in his head because it definitely sounded like Molly was crying, just like earlier in the lab. Before he could even begin to utter a sentence, the door to her office opened. Sherlock squinted in the bright light and blinked a few times until the image of John and Mary standing at the doorway became clear.
"Molly?" Mary whispered, and just like that, Molly was running from the office and into the hallway. The last glimpse Sherlock saw of Molly was her in Mary's arms, crying before John stepped into the room and gently shut the door.
"Sorry about that. I know how sensitive you are to light and sound during your headaches."
"What's wrong with Molly?"
There was silence for a few moments, and then John slowly closed the distance between them, perching on the very edge of the sofa. "Molly has had a bit of a day, and Mary and I were coming in to try and cheer her up. A few nasty autopsies," he added at the very end of his explanation. "Work gets the best of us sometimes."
"But I've never seen her so affected by her work."
John was quiet for a moment, and then he sighed. Sherlock could imagine his face scrunched up in thought. "It's been especially hard for Molly, because today is an anniversary for her and someone she recently lost. That's the best way I can explain it."
"Oh…" Sherlock whispered.
"They were together three years today. It's sad, but she's trying to move on the best she can."
Suddenly, Sherlock didn't much feel like sharing his good news with his friend. What was the most courageous thing he's done since his release from the hospital now made Sherlock feel like rubbish. Did Molly even really want to go out with him? Or was she just trying to appease him so he would leave her alone during her trying time?
Sherlock wasn't sure how long he was thinking, but he jumped when he felt John tap his shoulder. "Come on. You need to rest on a proper bed. The spare room at mine is ready. And Mary and I made a steak and mushroom pie last night. We can reheat that for you for lunch later."
Sherlock blinked in the darkness for a moment and then he sighed. "Okay." He didn't have much choice; it was very hard for Sherlock to turn John Watson and his family down, even if he wasn't feeling the best. Hopefully submersing himself in all the fun little things toddlers do and eating something will make him feel better. But as he struggled to his feet, still feeling a bit dizzy and latching on to John's arm, he knew there wasn't going to be much to cheer him up.
A/N: APOLOGIES FOR TAKING ABOUT A YEAR TO UPDATE. The last time I updated this fic, I got a new teaching job in Texas after moving 1,200 miles away from my family. And it's been one heck of an exhausting year! But things have settled, I got a new job (which is loads better than my old one) and I've decided I NEED to finish this fic before the next school year starts at the end of August.
Thank you for sticking with me! :)
