Just wanted to take a minute to thank you all so much. This story has become very special to me, and I've been told by a few of you how much it means to you as well. It started off as a way for me to just...get it out of my head, confusing and really heavy emotions. But now it's something much more, I believe. I want it to be a story that helps other people work through whatever they are going through, whether it be depression, or self-harm, or even just the occasional blue feeling. I'm trying to be as realistic as possible, so no, a speedy recovery on Molly's part isn't likely to happen. People suffer from depression for years, and while they have good days, months, even spurts of years, it can still come back, and it can always become worse than before. I just hope that you all know how much you mean to me, and that if any of you are suffering from anything at all, you can come talk to me. I have been there, and still am sometimes, so I offer the promise that I won't ever judge you, and I will always try my best to be/do whatever I can to help you.
Thank you so much for standing by me, you are really a wonderful group of people.
Disclaimers: I do not own BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, or any other characters/locations mentioned in this story.
TRIGGER WARNINGS ARE INVOLVED IN THIS STORY: SELF-HARM, DEPRESSION, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS/ATTEMPTS, ANXIETY, and probably a few more that I've forgotten. Please read with care, especially if you have dealt with, or are going through any of these yourself.
Thank you for reading, here's the next chapter:
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When Molly woke the next morning, she felt heavier than usual. She knew part of it was because of the night before, and the emotions she had opened herself up to when talking to John. However, the physical weight across her middle told her that she wasn't alone. After a startling moment of panic, she looked to her side, to find a very relaxed, very unconscious, Sherlock Holmes. His arm draped across her waist, and she could feel his fingers clutching the side of her night shirt as he slept. She felt safe here, and for once, she felt marginally happy, having this beautiful man to protect her from her own waking terrors.
Careful not to wake him, Molly moved from under his hold, grinning a bit as he curled closer to where she had just been. He looked so young in his sleep, and she wondered if it was the only time that his busy mind let him be peaceful. She made her way to the bathroom first, in desperate need of a shower. As she stepped into the tub, she made a mental checklist of things to do while the hot water beat on her skin. The running of her hand over a bare leg told her that shaving was certainly a priority, at least the areas that she could. However, when she reached for her razor, she found that it wasn't in her bag.
"Damn," she muttered to herself. Perhaps she'd forgotten to pack it, and only thought it was with the rest of her things. Not thinking anything of it, Molly proceeded to clean the rest of her body, quickly ignoring the slight tingle in her skin as the wash cloth ran over her arms and thighs. It was becoming easier to forget that her flesh had been so brutally tortured, the pain not as apparent when she would make contact with other materials.
After she had finished bathing, she decided that breakfast was the next step in her day. Small steps, that's what she had to remind herself of. Small, baby steps to get on a normal track. Molly made her way through 221B to the kitchen, which seemed slightly cleaner than just the day before. She had to take her hat off to Mrs. Hudson, who must be a special sort of saint for cleaning up the hazardous mess that was Sherlock's experiments. Setting her thoughts aside, the small woman searched for the shopping that John had done just days before. She was relieved to see that he had cleaned out a section of the refrigerator for actual food, and reached in to grab a pear. She placed the piece of fruit on the counter, and opened the drawer directly under it to pull out a knife. However, there weren't any to be found. Rather, the only sort of cutlery she could find were spoons, and a strange set of plastic measuring cups that collapsed into each other. Molly moved to the next drawer, thinking it must be one of the detective's weird quirks. However, after checking nearly all the drawers and the odd cupboard or two, she quickly realized what was happening.
He'd removed all of them. Knives, forks, chopsticks, scissors, her razor (which she remembered specifically being beside her hairbrush in her bag), and even the odd things, like a potato peeler she had just seen the day before; they were all missing. At first, she saw a slight morbid humour in the gesture, and a dry laugh left her throat. But as she stood there longer, the stronger the feeling of hurt, of anger, grew inside her. She was just about to turn around to go and wake Sherlock, when she found him standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
"I didn't feel you leave. Having some breakfast?" His tired voice was even lower than his normal tone, and Molly watched his eyes scan over to the abandoned fruit that she no longer had the appetite to eat.
"No. I'm going back to bed," she answered shortly, before storming past him and out to the living room. Sherlock turned and followed her, unsure of her sudden change in mood. When she stopped just short of the hallway, her fists clenching into tight balls, he knew she was upset with him. Better still, he had quickly discovered why.
"Molly, I only want to..."
"No, Sherlock. You only want to be sure that there's no possible way I could hurt myself while you go out on a case. I understand, it's a clear-conscience decision, but you can't keep every pointy object from me." Her tears had already sprang to life from the corners of her eyes, and she shook her head sadly as she spoke.
"It has nothing to do with that at all, Molly. I only want to remove the reminders of what you've gone through and done. It's just a means to..." Sherlock began defending himself, following after her as she took step after step back into the hallway.
"Just a means to end the tempting idea that I may still want to hurt myself? Is that what you were going to say? Because, guess what, Sherlock. Any thoughts I may have had in that direction have grown substantially in the past five minutes, discovering that you don't trust me around every day objects. I mean, really, chopsticks? What on earth would I do to myself with chopsticks?" Molly's voice raised in pitch, her hysterics growing as she stared at the so-called genius standing opposite her. He opened his mouth as if to answer, but closed it upon realizing how it did, in fact, sound remarkably silly. She sighed a heavy breath, and turned to walk back to his bedroom.
"You're right, I don't trust you around those objects. I don't trust what you could or would do to yourself. You're highly skilled with a scalpel, we've clearly established that," his voice bit out, before he could stop to think about what he was saying, "so forgive me for taking matters into my own hands and removing temptation." As soon as he'd realized what he said, it was too late. Her eyes had widened in a small look of shock, and her lower lip was already wavering far more than he was comfortable with seeing.
"Mol-" Before he could finish her name, she had ran into the bathroom, before slamming the door shut and locking it behind her. He mentally slapped himself for letting his concern get ahead of his mouth, and he pressed himself close to the door, trying to ignore the guilt that bubbled inside his chest at the sound of her soft, warbling cries from the other side of the wood.
"Molly, I didn't mean it like that. I'm...I'm sorry. I'm only trying to help, and I don't know how else to do it. Please, Molly. Please come out," he softly spoke to her, hoping that she would catch on to the sincerity in his words.
From the other side of the door, however, the emotionally stung pathologist bit down painfully on her lip, trying to prevent the worst of the sobs from leaving her mouth. The tears fell as she paced back and forth on the cool tiled floor, and she could barely hear Sherlock's voice over the sound of the blood rushing in her head. She physically hurt, the pain of betrayal sticking into her like dull needles that hit the wrong nerves as they stuck. As she passed by the mirror time and time again, she could feel her gaze drifting to her reflection, wondering what she looked like in such a state. The sight she finally settled on was far more upsetting than anything her precious detective had just said to her.
Her face, sullen from fitful nights of sleep, was splotched with reddish hues, a stressed vein popping out on her forehead as she withheld her tears. Her thin arms dropped from the sleeves on her slightly baggy night shirt, the one technically belonging to the man outside the door. She seemed even smaller than she remembered normally being, and the sight of herself in such a fragile (no, broken) condition made her stomach churn in anger. As she paced again, her eyes caught sight of a candle that sat directly in front of her bag of toiletries. She picked it up, the weight of the glass enclosed wax taking precedence in her hand. Her eyes stared blankly at it for a moment, before she cast her sights back to the reflection of her withered self in the mirror. Molly hadn't even thought of her actions, she simply reeled back and threw the candle at her other self.
Glass shattering.
That's what sent Sherlock Holmes into a frenzy. He'd only been idly jiggling the handle of the door before, hoping that Molly might unlock it in one of her passing trips. However, the shrill cracking and tinkling sound of breaking glass from the other side of the door had him suddenly trying to will the doorknob to turn completely. When it didn't, his free hand beat on the door, begging her to let him in.
"Molly? Molly! MOLLY! LET ME IN!" His fist beat again and again, and only after it didn't produce the desired effect, did the man begin throwing himself against the wooden barricade. He twisted the knob in a panic, before trying to break the door down using his shoulder as the blowing force. He fought through his own growing pain; his only thoughts stemming to the possible injuries of his dear pathologist on the other side. The door began to splinter at the latch, and Sherlock moved faster, using more force than before to make it give way.
Finally, after nearly fifteen minutes of not knowing how else to get to her, the door broke free, and Sherlock was now inside the small room. His eyes immediately cast to her, finding her shaking and silent on the rug. The mirror was shattered, several pieces remaining on the wall, and several more scattered along the sink's edge and the floor surrounding it. He carefully stepped over to her, and took note of the few nicks that had slashed over her delicate fingers. She held a piece of mirror in her hand, and Sherlock's worry grew in his chest as he saw her glazed over eyes staring at her broken reflection in it.
"Molly, come on. Let's go out to the living room, okay? I'll fix this later, but right now I need to take care of you." Her only response was to nod her head slowly. Sherlock bent down, and determined how to best handle the situation they were in. Her hand clutched tightly around the mirror, and he could see it beginning to break into her skin further.
"Molly, can I have this?" He asked softly, his hand reaching over the mirror and slowly guiding it out of her grasp. She didn't fight him at all, for which he was thankful. He then gently hoisted her into his arms, and carried her to the other room. After he set her on the couch, he immediately went to grab the emergency kit. The room was silent, aside from the sound of him opening bandage after bandage, placing each one on the joints and tiny exposed cuts of her hands. He had been focusing on how to effectively plaster one particular cut, when she whispered to him.
"I'm sorry about the mirror. I...these were an accident. I was trying to-" Her voice could barely support her words, and Sherlock pulled her close suddenly, his lips pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"Shh, I know. I'm sorry too. I didn't mean what I said."
"Yes, you did...but I know you didn't mean it the way it sounded," Molly answered for him, nodding her head in understanding. He finished tending to the last cut, and pulled her hands up to his mouth, placing delicate kisses across her scraped knuckles. Without a word, she slid over on the sofa, silently working her way into his arms, and laying her head on his chest. Sherlock simply allowed her to do so, and protectively wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.
"What about the mirror?" She asked after a few minutes. He shook his head, before murmuring into her hair.
"It can wait. Don't worry, I'll fix it." The words seemed to stick in his mind, another vow added to his growing list where Molly was concerned.
'I'll fix it. I'll fix you.'
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So, I knew the basics of this chapter, but there were parts that even surprised me while writing it. It wasn't supposed to turn out so heavy, but I must admit, I'm happy with how it turned out. Still not very long of a chapter, but I hope it sort of makes up for last time. Um, as always, thank you for reading. Please leave me a review and let me know what you think. Love you all so much, and I hope to see you all soon.