Sherlock sat in the uncomfortable chair next to Molly's hospital bed. This time, he had ridden with her in the ambulance, holding her hand the whole way. The doctors were uncertain, but Sherlock had high hopes that she would make it.
At the insistence of the nurse, he had left briefly to change out of his bloodstained clothes. He had also called John and Mary, updating them quickly. They promised to watch Matthew and Brooklyn, and that they'd come visit as soon as Molly was well enough to see the children.
So Sherlock sat at Molly's bedside. In the search through her flat to make sure it wasn't bugged, Lestrade had come across her old diaries, and now Sherlock was leafing through them.
Today I saw him across campus. He looks quite alright, luckily, not wasted. I don't know what I'll do if I hear from someone that he overdosed or anything like that. I suppose I'll always have to live with the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes died because I couldn't stand up for myself. I remember my mum's last words to me: "You are beautiful, Molly. Start acting like it." I think she was delirious. I don't feel beautiful. I feel worthless. I've ruined who knows how many lives, and there's nobody left on this planet for me. I've torn this body apart, staining it in bloody scars that will never leave. At least I can die with the knowledge that no one will care how much I've wasted. I do wish I could talk to him one last time before I die, if only to apologise. "I'm sorry for saving your life," I'd say, and I'd turn and walk away, because really, how messed up would that be? "I'm sorry for saving you. I'm sorry." I never could understand how little he seemed to care about himself. He's incredible. He's beautiful and strong and smart and talented and look at me. We're opposites. And whoever wrote that saying 'opposites attract' was off her rocker, because, honestly, why would Sherlock Holmes ever look at me? Me, who's cut more than she has eaten. Me, who messed up his life by saving it. Me. I'm just me. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes and I'm Molly Unimportant Hooper. It spells MUH. MUH, internet slang for Meh, as in, I don't care. And I don't. How fitting that that is how he should see me. Don't judge a book by it's cover. Judge it by the girl on it's cover, and it's cover should adapt to suit your judgement. I love you, Sherlock Holmes, but I don't love myself. Not anymore.
"Mr. Holmes?" came the voice. Sherlock looked up and brushed a stray tear off of his cheek. "We're operating now," said the nurse. "You can't be in here for that." Sherlock looked at Molly's body, laying on the bed next to him. "I won't leave," he said, looking back at the nurse.
She crossed her arms and looked at him. He stared right back at her. At this moment the doctor came in. "Mr. Holmes, you have to leave," said the nurse. The doctor looked over towards the two. "What's the issue?" he asked. The nurse tapped her foot against the ground. "He won't leave," she told the doctor. He looked at Sherlock.
"Mr. Holmes, you'll distract our surgeons," said the doctor. Sherlock coughed into his hand. "Poor surgeons if they're distracted by someone sitting silently in the corner," he said. "Silently?" asked the nurse. Sherlock nodded. "Silently," he said.
The doctor rolled his eyes. "It's a moot point anyway," said the doctor, "because it's illegal." Sherlock scoffed. "One of those law things," he said. "Precisely," replied the doctor. Sherlock glared at him.
Before he could argue, however, the door swung open and a tall, slim body leaned against the door frame. "Hello, young Mr. Holmes," said Irene Adler. "You're… coming with me."