Molly Hooper read somewhere that peonies symbolized good health, so on her lunch break, she left St. Bart's to get some. She always thought the hospital flowers were a bit lacking, anyway.
Carmichael's corner store on the next block sold flowers out front and a few creature comforts inside. She was going to buy a big bouquet, but she saw John's favorite jam in the window next to the breads of the day and decided to forgo the large bouquet for a smaller one and the can of jam. She picked up some biscuits to go with it and made her way back to John's room.
She picked up the reports from the woman who'd died that night. Anna Zwerling, aged 42, died of a gunshot wound to the head. From Sherlock's gun. Molly shivered and hid the papers in her bag, where John couldn't see them.
She knocked three times on the door and didn't wait for an answer, instead plastering a huge smile on her face. "Hi, John! It's me, Molly—are you awake, then?"
He was clearly awake—she could see him staring at the ceiling—but he didn't respond right away. Finally: "Hi, Molly."
"How're you feeling? It's been, what, two days since the surgery? I hear Dr. Baldwin did a great job with the—the bone thing."
John looked morosely down at the huge bulge of his plastered leg under the scratchy hospital blanket. "So I hear."
"Right." Molly clutched her bag awkwardly before shaking her head and pulling up a chair. "I brought these for you," she said, putting the peonies by his bedside. "They're supposed to represent good health. I read that in a book somewhere. And I brought your favorite jam, and biscuits, since I know hospital food is just awful."
That got a small smile out of him. "Ta, Molly."
She got to work preparing biscuits for them while she talked. "You look really awful, John. How've they been treating you?"
"The doctors? They've been fine," John said, looking down at himself. The loss of blood and subsequent blood transfusions had made his skin a sallow yellow, and he knew his hair was a mess and his eyes had dark circles under them. They could only get him to sleep when they drugged him.
"I mean…the people who've been in to see you. I imagine it's been a nasty parade, having to put on a show for everyone."
John frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You know, telling them you feel fine, listening to them tell you what a strong patient you are…it's annoying sometimes. I can tell," she replied. "Biscuit?"
He took it gratefully. "Thanks. Well, it's not too bad. Mrs. Hudson just cries, Harry just cries…she thinks if she'd been a better sister, I wouldn't have gotten involved with Sherlock at all, and now she's swearing off drinking, at least for now. Lestrade's been round, even Mycroft. But I can't bloody stand either of them."
Molly nodded. "I'm sure they only talk about things you don't want to."
"Pretty much." He sighed. "Not that I don't think about those things when they leave, though."
"We don't have to talk about it…"
"No. I suppose we don't."
They were silent for a while, until Molly inevitably broke. "I'm so—so sorry, John. It must be so hard, right now—"
"Yeah, we've established that."
"Not the leg. Who did it." She grimaced. "I can't imagine—well, I did the autopsy on Anna Zwerling, the woman who died that night? I just couldn't believe…"
"Yeah, well…I couldn't either." John stared down at his leg. "I was there, Molly. I saw what he did."
Molly bit her lip. "John, I was hoping…well, I know it's not exactly the best time, but when Greg was here, you were sure that Sherlock—"
"Don't—" John growled, making Molly drop her biscuit. "Don't say his name. I don't want—I don't want to hear it."
"I'm sorry—"
"It's fine." He paused. "I did believe it."
"Is there any chance it might still be true? Did Sher—could he really kill someone? Could he torture you like this?"
"Well, it wasn't the bloody Queen. Molly, I saw him do it all. There's—" He sighed, swallowed hard. "There's no chance… There's nothing left of him. Of the man we knew. He's gone, Molly."
"Oh." She shifted in her seat. "Then I'm sorry. He was a complete and utter—twat to you."
John eyed her as she blushed. Apparently she'd never used that word, especially about Sherlock, before. "We're all sorry."
"But what happens now?" she asked. "Are you going to help Greg?"
"Well, they say I'll be in a cast for eight weeks, at least, and then…" John chuckled. "Fucking hell. Do you want to know the funniest thing, Molly?"
"S-sure."
"He broke the PTSD leg, the one that stopped limping when I met him. The first time we met, I didn't need a cane anymore. The last time…well, the injury's real now. I'll be needing that cane back, for the rest of my life. Won't be able to walk without it." He chuckled darkly for longer than Molly liked. "Isn't that just fucking peaches?"
"I'm sorry."
"I know. It's not your fault, I'm…Molly, I'm not in the best place right now. But I really appreciate the jam, and the flowers."
Molly nodded, taking her cue to leave. "It was no trouble. I'm always here if you need me. I mean, literally, I'm in the basement, so…"
"I know. Thanks, Moll."
"Oh, and John?" she asked. "What—what are you going to do? After you're out and about, I mean?"
John mused on that. "I suppose I'll go back to helping Lestrade. Finding Sher—finding him."
Molly wrinkled her nose and replied, "Sorry, but—after all he's done, you still want to go looking for him? Try and bring him back?"
"Bring him back?" John smiled. "Bring him back? No, Molly, I'm not going to bring him back. I'm going to find him and I'm going to kill him."