{ The Blog of DOCTOR Molly Hooper - May 17, 2008

One Bachelor's degree, one Medical degree (oh my gosh, I'm a doctor!), an extra graduate degree in forensics and anatomy, and four years of training alongside the best and brightest of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital in London. That has been the only life of one very tired, but very proud Molly L. Hooper, age twenty-seven. Well, twenty-seven tomorrow, anyway! While it's been true that I have not had much of a life yet, I am well on my way to the type of life I want to lead. Some people call me morbid, gory, depressing, weird, creepy—but isn't that part of the fun? To me it is. Cutting into a cadaver and solving the mystery of how someone died and finding clues about the type of life they led is nothing short of fascinating. I wish more people would realize how much skill, intelligence, and insight it takes to stick with all the schooling and come out of the other side being a Forensic Pathologist.

Most of my friends say it's not worth it, or they did anyway when I still had friends. Might be my fault though...school did take up the giant majority of my time in the last eight-ish years. Hard to keep friends when you don't see them much… Anyway, back to my point. Ever since my Dad died and my brother went off to the Army, life has been very cruel to me. Now, stay with me, this isn't a pity post, I assure you. The point of this post is to explain why I wanted to become a forensic pathologist. I felt the need to explain this because of two reasons. One, my best friend Meena, who has stuck by me since the first year of high school, will never cease to ask me WHY, for all of the reasons I mentioned above. Two, because maybe somewhere out there in the universe, at some point, a lost and hurting teen will come across this blog in it's old and partially archived age and need some motivation to keep going, the way I did. So let me explain.

Ever since I was a little kid, I had an odd curiosity about death. My Dad used to tell me that when my grandmother died, I would ask him every day where she went, why she went, how she went…well, you get the point. Every day. When he finally told me that she died from what he called at the time "sick lungs", that sort of snowballed my curiosity into a whole new slew of questions for him. How did they get sick? What were they sick from? Why did that make her die?

Turns out my Dad's mother, my grandmother, had lung cancer. Apparently, it runs in the family, on his side. When I was young, I was very close to her, and despite my grief, I was still a curious eight-year-old. I never lost or forgot that curiosity. Now, many people know that my Dad was an Army veteran. So, when he got lung cancer, he wasn't very surprised; seeing how his mother had it, plus all the gunpowder and other chemicals from the battlefield that he must have breathed in for years. I was eighteen when he died, I had just graduated and he told me to never stop working towards my dream, and to never lose my curiosity because it would take me far. So I didn't. Through my second wave of grief, I realized he was right, so I worked and worked and worked and here I am today, finally bringing my schooling to a close and beginning the rest of my life with my dream job.

I became a forensic pathologist not only for myself, and to make my Dad proud, but also to be able to bring closure to other families who lose loved ones. People who may not know why their loved one died. I also did it so that maybe, just maybe I can learn more about cancer—maybe its sick, but I long for the day I get to do an autopsy on a person who had it too. I want to study it. I know little old me won't find the cure for cancer, but who can blame a girl for craving more information? My Dad and my brother were/are the most important people in my life. Other than Meena, of course. My Dad got me through a lot of hardships and heartaches, and he didn't deserve to die the way he did. So there are your reasons.

I'm not ashamed to call myself the Doctor of the Dead (har har), because I know that I'm not only making myself proud and doing what I want with my life going forward, but that I'm also making him proud.

X X X Molly }

Molly closes her laptop and sighs, looking around her tiny, crummy flat. It had begun to rain, and she can hear the light drip drip noise of the small ceiling leak in her kitchen. Going into the other room, she grabs the big blue bucket from the small closet and places it under the dripping, pursing her lips in annoyance. She leans against the counter and looks around, hoping that some day soon she will be able to run from this place. It's nearly condemnable. She grabs a frozen pizza from her small freezer and pops it in the oven. While it's cooking, she flips through the channels on her telly, trying to find something, anything that would pique her interest. Within a few moments she finds a show about real life mysteries and stops, her eyebrow raising a bit curiously. Content with that choice, she returns to the kitchen just in time to take out her pizza. As it cools, she takes the opportunity to throw her soft pjs and her glasses on, then returns, grabbing her food, and settling down on her sofa for a night of thrilling TV marathons.

{The Digital Journal of Sherlock Holmes – May 17, 2008

I thought I was getting better with everything. My Mum and Dad think I'm just fine, the way they should. The last thing I need is them meddling in my life like they have for the last twenty-nine years. I keep thinking how pleasant it would be if I could get Mycroft off my damn arse too. Yes, I will admit I have "fallen off the wagon" sometimes as he says ever so gracefully in his stupid posh British Government tone. It's funny how one's priorities shift when they have a high priority position of power. But back to my point, I keep telling him, I am a /user/, not an /addict/. You would think getting through nearly six years of schooling to attempt to make something of myself would prove to them that I am not some overgrown child that needs babysitting every day. I am a grown man with a graduate chemistry, criminal psychology, and forensics degree. If I choose to make something of myself, that will be my choice, and my choice alone. What I need is a job where I can work alone and do what I want, when I want. Something with crime. However, I will never be a police officer. I shudder just thinking about it. Yes, I suppose it takes a certain amount of skill, but to me, the large majority of humankind are filled with halfwits.

My mind needs near constant stimulation and that just won't do. Especially around people who do the opposite of stimulate, they absolutely rot my brain with incessant small talk about things that aren't important in this world at all. My peers used to make fun of me for not knowing insignificant things learned in primary school. Why bother retain information that you'll never use? Dumb. I suppose sometimes it would have been nice to sit at a table with a like-minded person or persons. But by twenty-eight, I know by now that I'm a sort of freak of nature. Not as much as Mycroft, but still. Runs in the family, apparently. I don't think there is anyone in this world I could say is like-minded to me. A reaffirming, yet depressing thought all at once. Mycroft always taunts me about being the more human one. As much as I DESPISE admitting he is right, it must be. Feelings suck. But then I suppose that's part of the reason why the drugs feel so amazing. They numb my feelings all the while stimulating my brain in the best ways. I hate the stigma, and I wish people would realize what it does for me. But as I said, there's no one in the world that's like me. No one in the world to begin to understand. Ugh.

SH }

Sherlock shuts his laptop and ruffles his dark, very curly hair in frustration. He looks around at his small studio and sighs, his face falling a bit. He picks up his mobile and checks to see if he has notifications, but as usually everything is empty. No emails, no texts, no missed calls. Setting his jaw in annoyance, he puts it down again and gets up to pace a bit, picking up the skull that is sitting on his small end table.

"Ah, hello Vic. Have I been killing you with my intellectual rants lately? I do tend to ramble about things people see as unthinkable or unimaginable, but they're really quite simple if people would just observe and not take every last situation at face value."

He looks at the skull and scoffs. "Who am I kidding? You're already dead. You're an inanimate object. I could ramble all day and you wouldn't give two shits what I have to say, eh? Yeah, that's what I thought...nobody else does either." He places it back down and balls his fists out of habit, the urges coming back to him. They have been getting stronger for weeks now and he has done nearly everything he can think of not to pick up the needle, but sometimes he /needs/ it. Making large strides towards his bedroom, he opens his sock drawer and takes out a pack of cigarettes. He has two left and swears to himself, grabbing one. Stepping outside, he only gets a few moments to take in a few large drags before the rain starts to come down hard enough to put it out.

"No!" he growls and drops it in the filthy, unused bird fountain. He sinks to the ground, not caring that his clothes are being soaked through from the rain as he rubs his face in distress. After a while, Sherlock pulls himself up and begins walking, already soaked. Before he even processes where he's going, in front of him appears a very old, dilapidated, graffitied building. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he makes his way inside and shakes his hair out as best he can. He sees rows of sleeping bags and sleeping people. Sherlock knows in his heart that he should not be here, but his head screams for some.

"Wiggins! Wiggins, where the hell are you, you ingrate!?"

Shuffling is heard near the staircase and a very dirty ginger haired young man pops into view. "Eyy, I'm not an ingrate, you are! Whatcha want, 'olmes? I was startin' to think you'd never be back 'ere."

"I need some. Get me some. Now."

"Eyy mate, you know I can't supply withou' payment!"

Sherlock growls and rips his wallet out of his soaked sweatpants, handing him a few soggy bills. "Now get it, NOW."

Wiggins rushes up the stairs and returns moments later, handing Sherlock a big baggy of needles, filled with heroin. He puts them in his sweatshirt pocket and shoves his wallet back into his pants. "Thanks...", he mutters, slightly disappointed in himself.

"Ya welcome, mate. See ya next time."

"There won't be a next time, Wiggins."

"Aye, that's what ya always say."

Sherlock clenches his jaw and walks out into the rain again, quickening his pace as he walks back towards his flat. When he gets there, he's shivering but ignores it, rushing to his small kitchen and immediately testing the needles. He may be a drug /user/, but he is not a dirty one, he always makes sure that he's safe first; rather, that the needles are safe /for/ him. Every time. He supposes that his superior mind allows him to be better than other users in that way. They seem fine, but coming from Wiggins, it always makes him slightly uneasy. To be extra safe, he empties the needles into a steel bowl and melts them with his torch so he can easily toss later, without risk. Taking out the new needles that he got online, Sherlock sterilizes them with alcohol wipes and dries them, then fills them with the heroin in the steel bowl.

He runs his fingers through his damp curls and sheds his soaking sweatshirt, tossing it into his bedroom. He paces around for a while, glancing at the needles on the counter, over and over. In the back of his mind, and in his heart, he knows it's wrong, that he really shouldn't. But he can't take the silence anymore. He needs the stimulation, the high.

Picking them up, he bring them with him to the sofa as he lays down on it. He brings the first needle to his forearm, hovering hesitantly. He was lucky that the last time, the track marks didn't scar him, and wonders what would happen if he were to fall back into old habits. It's more likely than not if he goes through with this, but he /needs/ the invigoration that it can give him. With the loneliness all around him settling into his bones, he slips the needle into his forearm, and plunges the heroin into his veins. Sherlock sighs wonderfully and his eyes slip closed as he let's the euphoria take over.