There were certain areas of Bart's that were surprisingly easy to get into if one knew the routine. For Sherlock Holmes such knowledge came from his rigorous attention to detail. For Molly Hooper it came from the easy familiarity she had with the hospital that had seen her through the entirety of her career. And while Molly could in no way claim the occasional bouts of moral ambiguity that allowed Sherlock to break into places he shouldn't be she couldn't say in this moment that she was exceptionally torn up over her current unauthorized presence in the hospital's blood and plasma storage.
The hunger clawed deep, like a beast trying to break free of the fragile confines of her body. She felt as if she was burning, drying up from the inside. And in her less lucid moments she fancied herself blowing away on the breeze, little more than dust in the wind. Which could be why several times on her trip here she had found herself humming the Kansas tune. It had proven far less alarming a discovery than the few time she'd pulled herself together enough to realize she was staring at the crowd swirling around her much the way a starving man would view a buffet. She'd ran after that, heedless of her speed or the lack of shoes on her feet, seeking the safety and familiarity of Bart's.
And now here she was, shaking like an addict in need of a fix, staring at the little neatly hanging bags of blood with mixture of horror, guilt and bone deep thirst. She couldn't even believe that she was even contemplating doing this. Her mind recoiled from the thought, guilt at the idea of the other lives that could potentially be saved by what she was now stealing making her flush with shame. It was only the knowledge of how close she'd been from attacking someone on the street that kept her from turning around and leaving with nothing. She swore to herself that she'd post flyers promoting blood donation to make up for everything.
Forging the paperwork to log out two pints of O+, given that it was the best stocked, made her feel little better than a common criminal. She had no idea how she would ever manage to do this long term. She felt terrible, out of control of her own actions and at the mercy of her instincts. She disgusted herself with her behavior and the idea of having to go on like this indefinitely was nearly a terrifying as the idea of not going on at all. She felt so entirely torn by the entire situation she couldn't even control the tears that slid down her cheeks as she found herself a quiet closet to hide in while she…ate.
"Oh god…" The thought of what she was about to do had her gagging even as her mouth watered. It was an odd feeling, to crave something even as she was disgusted by it, one she had never thought she'd ever have to experience. Especially considering that it didn't seem to matter how she felt or what her mind was telling her, as soon as the blood hit her tongue she felt nothing but pleasure. Even the oddly unnatural taste of the sodium citrate used as an anticoagulant didn't lessen the pleased relief she felt as she easily drank down both pints, the hunger easing and allowing her to think more clearly. It was still a number of long moments before she felt pulled together enough however to leave her hiding place. She was grateful her tears had finally dried as she disposed of the empty bags and made her way to the morgue. Her mood may not have improved any but at least now she felt less panicked and unable to think.
There were few things in Sherlock's life that he considered immutable. He was never going to be without his work because people were always going to be trying to kill each other, the laws of physics and Mycroft's love of cake. In all other things he expected change. It was inevitable. It was entire reason science held such a fascination for him, even if he did only pursue the study it in relation to what would make him a better detective. Despite being told by numerous people that he was limiting himself he never felt limited. He felt as if there would always be something new to learn about and denying himself the opportunity would be the only thing that would ever truly limit him. Science didn't deny a possibility until it had been proven time and again to be false and neither did he.
However as he swept into the morgue with far less of his usual grand theatrics, unwilling to startle Molly when he found her, he was at a loss to explain how she still managed to know it was him before he had even gotten the doors closed. "Go away Sherlock. I don't want to talk about it." He could hear her voice but it took him a moment to find her as his eyes adjusted to darkened room. Making his way towards her he frowned at the sight of her laid out on one of the autopsy table, the image leaving him unsettled in a way he wasn't sure he wanted to analyze at the moment, if ever. Discarding his question of how she knew it had been him he looked her over. "Molly. You were attacked." He made it a statement rather than a question, they both knew it was true after all. "And yet you saw fit to destroy evidence and run when help arrived. Explain." He waited for her to speak, expecting some sad tale of fear that had kept her from thinking clearly. He was surprised however when she changed the subject entirely, her words puzzling.
"Did you know I used to come down here and lay just like this when I first chose to be a pathologist? I used to lay here and picture what it might be like to be one of the corpses. Morbid I know, but I wanted to try and imagine what it would be like, how they would feel about it if they were able to. It made me more respectful of the people they used to be. I still wonder sometimes if they appreciate the extra care. I always figured I would when the time came. Now I suppose I'll never get to know." Her voice was quiet, a pained note to it that left him feeling angry at whoever was the cause. Physically unharmed as she was he knew then that her assailant was in for a considerable amount of pain when he found him for the damaged he'd obviously inflicted on her emotionally. She wasn't even making sense and her talk of death sounded almost wistful. This wouldn't do at all.
"Molly what happened? I need you to tell me everything so that we can find your assailant and see him properly incarcerated. We have already lost a great deal of evidence already thanks to your illogical need to cleanse yourself after the incident so we'll have to rely on your brain and the human memory is notoriously shoddy in the…" His remaining words were choked off as she sat up with a speed and grace he had never seen from her before, and sound of protest interrupting him. "NO! You will do no such thing Sherlock Holmes. There will be no catching my assailant do you understand me? You will stay far, far away from this. It's none of your concern understood? There is no case. I. Do. Not. Want. Your. Help."
His eyes widened at the vehement tone, the impassioned words. She sounded near panicked at the thought of him finding her attacker. Scared but not for herself. He looked her over silently, searching for clues as if the answers were waiting in the folds of her kitten print pajamas and faded pink dressing gown. They usually were. They were her favorite set, he could see the marks of careful darning where they'd been damaged, her skill with sewing up a body apparently transplanting to simple clothing repairs. They were well washed, faded from time the same as her dressing gown. Some sort of sentimental value then, likely from her father. She'd never shown herself attached to gifts given to her by former boyfriends. She looked healthy enough despite whatever had happened in her flat. Oddly healthy in fact, the dark circles and ashen skin that had telegraphed her exhaustion from the double shift she'd finished just this morning were gone. Her skin had a healthy glow he hadn't seen on her since John's wedding. There were no signs of assault. No bruises or cuts. And yet he knew there would be none hidden under her clothes, the outfit she had been wearing had shown no signs of rips or tears.
It wasn't until he noticed a small drop of fresh blood on the collar of her dressing gown that she froze, going so still he couldn't even see her chest move. "Don't Sherlock…please just don't." Her whispered plea was wasted on him however as his fingers touched the small spot. "Where did this come from Molly? What did he do to you?" It wasn't until he touched her cheek and felt the somewhat too cool temperature of her skin that he became truly alarmed. Fearing that she was perhaps suffering from shock he pressed his finger to the pulse at her neck with practiced ease as she let loose a defeated sigh. He too seemed to stop moving as his mind finally registered that he felt nothing, a quick check of his finger placement showed that he had indeed placed them properly. There was merely no pulse to be found. His eyes were wide as they found hers and she smiled slightly, the sadness in those big brown eyes of hers an unspoken confirmation that he wasn't hallucinating. "He killed me Sherlock. He killed me and didn't let me die. Not truly."