In the next twenty-four hours, Sherlock somehow got access to a hospital bed, complete with a feeding tube hanging next to it. He set it very neatly in the flat's living room, underneath the window. John was against it at first, but after a while he realised that he couldn't argue with Sherlock, so the next day Molly came to stay at 221B Baker Street.

As inconvenient as having a hospital in his flat had seemed, John had to admit, it was nice to have Sherlock there 24/7. John had been nervous when the nurse had sent such a long list of instructions, but, as Sherlock was doing everything himself (to insure that it was "perfect for my-for Molly"), John was pretty relaxed about everything now.

Sherlock insisted on sleeping on the couch next to Molly, and by this time John figured that it would be pointless to argue. He went upstairs to bed, leaving Sherlock reading to Molly.

The next morning, John woke up early. Remembering yesterday's events, he ran down the stairs and into the sitting room. Sherlock lay on the couch, his eyes closed. "Poor git, he was exhausted," thought John. He grabbed a blanket to cover Sherlock. As he was putting it over him, Sherlock's eyes opened. "John?" he asked stupidly, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. "Go back to sleep, Sherlock," said John, as he turned and went to make some tea.

"John," Sherlock whispered. John turned around to see Sherlock sitting up, the blanket around his shoulders, leaning forward so that he was almost touching Molly. "Sherlock?" John asked, slightly concerned. "John, she's waking up," said Sherlock urgently. John rushed over to him and bent to inspect Molly.

Still bent over her, he said to Sherlock, "sorry, mate. She's still just as unconscious as she was yester-" Straightening up, he saw that Sherlock was fast asleep, still sitting up. John looked again at Molly and then went back to his tea.

An hour or so later, when John was going through emails on his computer, Sherlock's eyes opened suddenly. He sat quite still for a moment, and then jerked forward quickly, looking Molly in the face.

John watched him from his chair. Seconds later, Sherlock fell back, disappointed. He then noticed John. "Oh, John," he said awkwardly. "I was just, erm, checking to see…" his voice died out. He and John sat in silence for a little bit, before John rose. "I'm going to visit Mike Stamford today," he told Sherlock. "Eat something."

Sherlock stayed on the couch watching Molly for a little bit before getting his violin. He stood with it under his chin, staring at Molly. He finally held up his bow, put it in position. He closed his eyes tightly and started to play.

He hadn't even played for ten seconds before he dropped his bow with a cry. Placing the violin on John's chair, he knelt on the ground. He rested his head on the edge of Molly's bed and wept.

As a calming method, he started to talk. "I'm so afraid," he said. "Afraid of everything. Afraid you're going to wake up and go back and start this whole thing over again. Afraid that everytime I see you you'll have fresh scars on your arms and legs. Afraid that someday, purposeful or not, you'll bleed dry, and I'll have to see your body, cold and empty." He paused, his usually sharp eyes clouded over with tears.

"I'm afraid that you'll wake up a different person. A person who feels she has nothing to live for. A person who decides to move a million miles away. Anything different from what you were won't be as good." Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back. "But even that would be preferable to the alternative. Never seeing you wake up. I'd never see you smile, or cry, or shout at me. Your eyes would never glow like they used to. I'd have to see you lying there, lifeless, as you wasted away."

Sherlock smiled just a little bit. "Do you remember in college, when I disappeared to that drug den for a little while, before your mother's funeral? I told you not to come get me, and you did anyway. I suppose that's kind of the same thing. You watched me slowly kill myself, and you couldn't do anything about it. The difference is, you were my friend then." A tear runs down the bridge of Sherlock's nose.

"It's not your fault we're not friends, now, you know. I knew what you were going through-in college, after college, all these years. I knew about the cutting and the drugs and the depression in general. I had to leave. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't save you, and I couldn't stand to watch you die before my eyes. I suppose that's just one of the many ways you're superior to me. And you were wrong, you know."

Sherlock traced his name on Molly's arm. He winced as he imagined the physical, mental and emotional pain she had to have gone through in order to dig a blade that deeply into her skin. "You were wrong," he said again, this time more softly. "I do love you, Molly Hooper. I love you too much for my own good. Yours, either. I suppose it's too late to tell you that. I had all these years, and I'm only strong enough to say it when you're dying."

He smiled bitterly. "That's how it is with us, isn't it. How it's always been. I'm only strong when you're weak. You give me all I need to be strong. At your own expense. You gave me your life. It's been enough to keep me alive all these years. And I do appreciate it. Molly Hooper, I love you."