Sorry for the long wait, y'all. Life got in the way. I had wayyy to many trips planned in one small block of time and was unable to write anything during those trips. Some therapy stuff got in the way too and just.. Life, man, life. Anyways... I should definitely put a trigger warning for this chapter so TRIGGER WARNING. You have been warned. Read if you dare.

P.S. sorry if it sucks. I swear I tried my best. As always R&R please and thank you. All reviews appreciated.


Chapter 2

Sherlock continued to be bothered by everything that had happened for the rest of the day. The cab ride back to 221B Baker Street was physically quiet, yes, but his mind was screaming and his Mind Palace suddenly cluttered. He had no knowledge on how to help someone with something like this. His Mind Palace was completely empty; he had no section dedicated to dealing with suicidal tendencies of other people; no sections dealing with self-harm. For once, he had no answers. No solutions. All he had was confusion and a massive headache from the clutter of his mind. There was only one thing he could think to do at this point. He pulled out his cell phone and composed a text message to his good friend, John Watson.

Meet me at the flat as soon as possible. –SH

When he got to Baker Street, he clobbered up the stairs and promptly ignored the fuss that Mrs. Hudson began. He didn't understand why she felt the need to speak with everyone who came through the door. God knows he didn't talk to the people that came through his door, let alone acknowledge them when they do. Nevertheless, he sulked over to the couch in the lounge and sprawled out on it. He stared up at the ceiling and reentered his Mind Palace to perhaps look deeper than he had before; to see if there was a sliver of information he could possibly have on the subject; anything that he could use to help Molly. He sorted through all the health information he had stored in his brain and came out empty handed. He never had to deal with any kind of illness before, mental or physical. There was nothing he could do for Molly; no medicine he could just give her; nothing he could possibly say would ever be enough to help her. Getting restless, he decided he should write John again.

Sooner rather than later would be quite preferable. –SH

John was the only one Sherlock knew would have any answers of any kind. Being a doctor, he would be at least somewhat knowledgeable on the subject and therefore some solutions. He didn't want to have to go to him, but what else could he do? Who else could he trust with this? There was no way he would go to someone else such as Detective Inspector Lestrade and there was no way in Hell he would ask advice from Mycroft. Anyone else would send her off somewhere or do something to make her feel attacked which was clearly not the path to take right now. As demonstrated back at Bart's, most things right now will make her feel in some way attacked and she erupted at the fact. She can't handle much right now, that much was clear.

He sighed and sat up straight on the couch. He buried his head in his hands, running them through his thick black curls. He didn't deal well with frustration. He got up and started nervously pacing the lounge. His long legs easily carried him the length of the room in three strides and he was already getting restless. What was taking John so long to get here? It's been easily forty-five minutes since he sent that first text to his best friend. Shouldn't the short fool be here by now?

Just as he was about to send John another message, he heard the door open and shut to 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson quickly welcomed the person in, as usual, but the person didn't stay down there long to banter. They rapidly moved past her and made their way up the stairs towards Sherlock's flat. He immediately recognized the footsteps as John's and relaxed a little bit – as much as he could with what had been happening today and the subject matter at hand. The door to the flat was slightly ajar and John had no qualms about just walking in.

"What took you so long?" Sherlock asked.

"Some of us do have jobs, you know. Like, real jobs. And wives. Remember Mary?" John said sarcastically.

Sherlock sneered at his friend and glanced at the clock. 5:30 P.M. Molly would be getting off of work in half an hour. He had to get answers quickly, so there was no beating around the bush.

"John, quick refresher. What are the warning signs of suicide?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Just answer the question. Please."

No being used to Sherlock using polite words, John mustered up a quick summary of a few signs that he knew of. "Well, being generally withdrawn; tired; um, the most common is some form of self-harm. Why are you asking?"

"Research."

"Bullshit. What's the real reason?"

"Well, in all fairness, it technically is research. To see if I'm correct. And there's someone who I think may need help."

"Who?" John asked, worriedly.

"Don't worry about it. None of your business."

"None of my business? I'm a fucking doctor, you insufferable twit. This is exactly my business."

"John. Stay out of it. How would you help someone who is showing these warning signs?"

"It depends. That's why I need to know who has the problem," John said through gritted teeth, clearly getting upset and angry.

Sherlock sighed. He knew he was going to have to tell John if he was going to get some answers out of him, but at the same time he knew Molly would utterly despise him for sharing these details with John. For some reason, the thought of Molly hating him sickened him; he didn't want to think about that. It almost pained him. He wasn't used to feeling this sort of thing, especially towards a human being. So, now he had to choose. Either he doesn't tell John and he won't get the answers he needs, but he will keep the trust of his female associate or he tells him, losing part of Molly's trust, but he gets his answers and may save her life. While he hated the thought of her hating him, he knew telling John was the only way to help ensure she stayed alive long enough to hate him.

He looked John directly in the eyes and whispered, "Molly."

John looked astounded, as if that was the last person on this planet that he would suspect of showing any signs. It was as if he couldn't fathom her being depressed in the very least. True, he never really saw her much so he doesn't have a good gauge of how she normally acted, but he thought he knew her well enough to know whether or not she was suicidal. He was a doctor for God's sake! He should've been able to see this long ago. He sighed, trying to think of some way to help her, but he knew he didn't know her too well so he couldn't think of a plan that she would agree with.

"I guess we could… I don't know. Take her to a facility to help her?" he suggested.

"No, she would never go for that and I would never force her to do something she didn't want to do," Sherlock said sincerely. "I've had terrible vices before. I may not have been suicidal, but I know for me when I was using drugs avidly I was strongly against rehab."

"Big shocker there," John muttered, looking at his feet. He hated talking about Sherlock's drug habits, though this time it was a decent parallel. "I honestly don't know what we could do besides that. All I know is that if she is suicidal, we can't leave her alone. What makes you think she wants to kill herself in the first place?"

"I went to the morgue today to examine a body for a case and as she was putting the body back I saw cuts on her arm and her wrist. She was acting oddly out of character and seemed extremely fatigued." He glanced at the clock as saw that it was now 5:45. "I'm going to her flat," he said grabbing his coat from the back of the door.

"I'll come with you," John suggested.

"No! Molly can't know you know. Trust me, it is better that way. She's very ill-tempered right now. I will call you if I need assistance."

And with that, Sherlock was out the door and on his way to Molly's flat. He had been there once and remembered how to get there, so he decided he would walk there. He had around twenty to thirty minutes to get there before she did which was ample time for him. He wound his way through the streets of London, taking various shortcuts through alleys. In no time, he was making his way through the door and picking the lock to Molly's flat door. After a minute or two of arguing with the lock, he was finally in. He kept the lights off and made his way to the couch in her lounge after nearly tripping over her cat whose name he forgot. Terrence, Teddy? Didn't matter. He sat there patiently, hands together with his pointer fingers up towards his mouth, waiting for her.

Soon after, she fumbled her way through the door as well, flipping on a light switch. The layout of her flat was different than that of Sherlock's, so she didn't see him when she walked through the door. Her cat met her at the door when she came in and she greeted him properly. Sherlock, of course, overheard this interaction. Toby! That was the cat's name! She turned to go to her room when he cleared his throat, making his presence known. She nearly jumped out of her own skin. She turned around and saw him, the look in her eyes a mixture of anger, surprise, and fear – but mostly anger.

"What are you doing here?" she growled at him.

"Look, you need help. I don't see you going to someone else for help, so I came to help you."

"I'm not some damsel in distress that needs saving, Sherlock. I'm perfectly fine on my own," she stated dangerously calm. Her eyes told Sherlock everything as did her mannerisms and her overall state of being.

"No, you're not," he said once again grabbing her arm and pulling up the sleeve. He forced her to look at her arm and she then looked up at him as if pleading him to stop. "Molly, I know you don't want help but you need it."

"What could you possibly know about this – about me?"

"I was a drug addict, remember? Generally same concept."

"You think we're similar now, is that it?" She asked in an accusatory tone, stepping a little bit closer to him.

He raced through his brain trying to think of something to say that wouldn't further anger her, though he was sure if she were to resort to violence that he could subdue her. He didn't know what he could say, though. This was probably the only time in his life that he had actually thought about the effect his words could have on other people; this was the only time he worried about the consequence of his words. He knew he wasn't going to convince her that their dilemmas were similar. He would never be able to get her to calm down now either. She was worked up and fed up. She had had enough of this argument; enough of this day; enough of this life. He willed his mind to work faster and think of anything that he could say right now. The only thing his sociopathic mind could do was the one thing he did best: deceive her.

"Maybe you're right," he started, "maybe we're not similar. Our vices are different and God knows our motives are different. You're right. We're different; we're not similar."

"Fine. Okay. Thank you," she said, walking away.

Molly went into her bedroom to get out of her work clothes and put on something a little more comfortable. The sweater she wore was scratchy and irritated her more recent cuts. She took that off in favor of an oversized grey sweatshirt. She took off her slacks to put on a pair of black sweatpants. She took her hair out of the messy bun she had put it in after Sherlock's visit and lazily combed through it. She sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror inside her wardrobe. She didn't necessarily like what she saw. She was tired and had dark circles under her eyes; she hadn't slept very well in the longest time. Sometimes she doesn't sleep at all for a few days. She wanted to just smash the mirror into tiny bits and pieces. She could then use those glass shards to… No. She shook her head, hating herself for having those thoughts, but that didn't stop her actions. She took her fist and smashed it into the mirror.

She didn't feel the pain of the glass breaking into her hand. It didn't register in her mind. She knew that it should have hurt, but it didn't. She stood there, hand bloodied and battered. Sherlock busted through her bedroom door having heard the mirror break, fearing she had done something rash and stupid – which technically she had. He looked at her with confusion. He didn't draw the connection between her changing and her smashing the mirror. It didn't matter, though. He saw her hand and the blood dripping onto the floor.

"Molly, why on Earth-," Sherlock started, but didn't need to finish.

"It wouldn't make sense to you. It doesn't make sense to me. I just… I didn't like what I saw. I didn't like what I thought."

He nodded his head as if he understood because in a way he did. He did the same sort of things when he was in need of another hit while trying to get sober. Those were symptoms of his withdrawal, though. He didn't quite grasp why Molly was lashing out in these ways. He didn't know if he ever would. He didn't do well with people and didn't understand much of what they did or why they did it. Factor in the depression and he understands less than what he thought he did.

She walked past him on her way to the bathroom to bandage her right hand. She started running water in the sink to wash her hand with warm water. She winced as it ran over her wound and bit the inside of her lip to keep her from screaming out because of the pain. The irony of this wasn't lost on her. If anything, that irony was the reason she was living. For now. She then poured alcohol and hydrogen peroxide over her hand to get rid of any dirt or infection that may have been there. She then tried to wrap her hand in gauze, but wasn't having much luck with it as she was predominately right handed, so she was basically useless trying to do something – anything – with her left hand. She grunted in frustration and threw the gauze across the bathroom. It rolled towards the door and landed by Sherlock's feet. She didn't even notice his tall, brooding figure leaning against the door frame until now.

He looked at her with a confused yet bemused face. He wore a smirk that almost could have resembled his inner laughter at the scene. Not how they got to the scene – just the scene itself right now. Molly was actually quite adorable when she was frustrated. Or at least he thought so. He looked down at the gauze, debating whether he should pick it up and wrap her hand for her or not. Would she mind? Would she get mad at him for trying to simply take care of her? He, again, didn't like these thoughts of her anger directed towards him or her hating him. Then again, if the wound didn't get properly taken care of then it may get infected. He didn't want that either. He once more decided that her health was more important, so he picked up the gauze and walked towards her figure that was leaning against the vanity, face looking down towards the sink while her hands (her good one anyway) held a death grip on the edge of the vanity. He stood next to her and held out his hand, expecting her to give him her right hand, but that's not what happened. Instead, she looked up at him and just shook her head.

She walked back to her bedroom, her mousy hair sashaying across her back a little bit with each step. She sat down on her bed and picked up Toby, beginning to pet him mindlessly and staring into nowhere. Did she want this to happen? No. Did she wake up with the intent of smashing her fist into her wardrobe mirror? God no. Did she want to be this way? Definitely not. So, why should she have to be? There were many other times she had thought this. Like earlier today in the lab when she longed to be the cadaver on the table. Times when she would cut into her wrists and forearms with her fingernails in hopes of drawing blood. It was more difficult than cutting with a knife, but it was also easier to hide the scars and the act. This way, she could cut in public and write it off as scratching. The cuts and scars were smaller. And better yet she still got the rush that came with cutting, though to her it seemed a better rush since it took her longer to really cut deep and good.

She was so spaced out with these thoughts that she didn't even notice Sherlock come sit on the bed next to her; didn't even notice that he had wrapped up her hand for her. The thoughts were consuming her, infringing on her ability to notice what should have been obvious. She was mad at herself for letting this happen despite the fact that, logically, she wasn't at fault.

"You don't have to stay, you know," she told him, finally turning away from Toby and for once looking Sherlock in his eyes.

"I know. I want to," he affirmed.

She looked in his eyes, but they were as guarded as she was. And, for some reason, his answer bothered her to no end. Why would he want to? They weren't exactly close friends. She helped him from time to time and that's it. He's never shown this type of care towards any other person that she knew of. As for as she knew, he didn't care for people at all. So then why was he showing her this sort of care? He wouldn't know what to do. Then, it all came to her. He didn't know what to do or how to handle this, but someone he knows does.

"You told John, didn't you?" she asked surprisingly calmly.

"I did," he didn't bother trying to lie to her at this point. "I didn't know what else to do. I asked for advice on how to help you and he was the only one I knew capable of that."

"Then just tell me the truth; tell me the real reason you're here," she said. In return, she only got a blank stare from Sherlock. "It's okay. I know you're here because you feel obligated. Not because you want to be here."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. She was right, but she was also so far from the truth. Yes, he was obligated, in a way, to be here with her. Only because she was his friend though. Not because he felt that she was some kind of chore for him. For some reason, he also wanted to be there with her. A true want to be with her. To protect her. And most of all to stop her. But, since he didn't know how to explain why he wanted to be there – it seemed quite irrational to him – he didn't know what to say. He hated to be ill spoken and that's exactly what he would be should he try to explain this to her. What other choice did he have, though? He didn't want her to have thoughts like this; he didn't want her to hate him more than she seemed to already.

"Molly, you couldn't be farther from the truth."

"Couldn't I?"

"No. Believe it or not, I actually care about you. I don't want you dead. In fact, that's the last thing I want you to be."

"Is it?" she asked, glaring into his pale blue orbs with her chocolate brown ones. "The only reason you would want me alive is because I'm the only one in the morgue who will work with you and let you do whatever you want down there. You don't want me alive; you just want what I give you."

He couldn't deny that. That was true; if she were to parish, nobody else would give him lab access like she did. But, that's not the only reason he wanted her alive. He just didn't know how to get her to see why he would want her alive. It's like she wanted to twist his words and his thoughts to get him to go along with her suicidal goal. He was aware of this though, so he knew that he would have to be more careful when speaking with her. It's not that she was pissed at him, it's that she wanted him to want her dead too. Like she needed someone's affirmation and consent. He would under no circumstances be the endorsement of Molly's suicide.

"Molly-," he began but was soon cut off by his companion.

"It's fine, really."

"Nothing about this is fine, Molly. What you've been doing to yourself is not fine. What you plan on doing to yourself is not fine. And the reason you think I'm here is definitely not fine."

"It may not be fine, but it's not wrong is it? The reason why I think you're here?" she asked. In return, she got nothing but sigh out of Mr. Holmes; a sigh that she returned with a tired look in her eyes. "You can get out now."

"Molly, I'm not leaving you alone."

"That's noble and all, Sherlock, but if you don't mind I'm going to go to bed. Feel free to crash on my sofa."

He nodded and exited her bedroom with no qualms. He didn't point out anything he probably should have. Like the fact that she hadn't eaten yet; or that she hadn't bathed yet; or even that she hadn't so much as taken off the little makeup she wears. She's not sure if she was bothered by that or not. She didn't know how to feel with the things Sherlock had said to her. Did he mean any of them? Should she believe him? He is a sociopath after all. He would say anything to get what he wants. He has approximately zero emotions. All things considered, she probably shouldn't trust what he's said. But there was something else about him tonight, hell today, which made her want to think otherwise. His face and his eyes said so much more than his words. He looked genuinely concerned for her well-being. His eyes were legitimately confused as to why she was the way she was. Like he couldn't fathom any Molly that wasn't the "normal" happy-go-lucky Molly that everyone knew. And right now, that's the only one everyone knows, besides Sherlock and John evidently.

Molly moved up on her bed and crawled underneath her covers, burying herself. She felt suffocated by everything; she needed it all to stop. She was fine when nobody knew about her issues. She still felt almost like herself when nobody knew. But now that people knew, people who were relatively close to her generally speaking, she didn't know who she was. They would now be able to tell when she was breaking, or damn near to it, and she wasn't sure if she liked that. She didn't like it when people knew her weaknesses. She was comfortable when she could just float through life. Sure, she didn't necessarily enjoy it, but it had to be better than constantly being watched by the people who know. Constantly feeling guilty for making people worry about you.

All these feelings came rushing towards her and hit her like a freight train. She tried her best to do nothing about it that was harmful. She would feel weird harming herself while Sherlock was just outside her door. Instead, she took slow breaths with her eyes closed and bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from crying out in just plain emotional agony. It killed her to not be able to do physical harm. She didn't even realize how much she depended on it until now, when she couldn't. Well, she could. She just didn't feel comfortable with it because Sherlock now had a physical presence in her immediate vicinity. She only ever cut when she was alone. Wouldn't it be weird if she did while someone was here? What if he saw something he shouldn't? If she did cut, she would have to leave her room to go to the bathroom and take care of what she had done and if she did that then he would no doubt sense her presence at the very least.

Why did she even care, though? Why should she care if Sherlock was there or not? It's not like he's never done anything in the form of self-harm before. He was a drug addict for God's sake! Compared to him, her coping mechanism seemed far more tamed. Who was he to tell her that what she was doing was wrong anyways? Well, he has been clean for quite some time she argues with herself. Maybe he was right. Maybe she should stop. But what would take the place of her current indulgence? Nothing would ever make her feel as good as cutting did, which was the only reason she didn't want to listen to Sherlock or take his hypocritical advice.

All these musings in her head deafened her. They were too loud, too omnipresent. She couldn't think of anything that would quit these thoughts and they certainly weren't going to stop on their own. So, she ignored her thoughts on Sherlock being just outside her bedroom door. She ignored the uncomfortable feeling that accompanied her when she thought about harming herself while he was there. She grabbed a nail file out of bedside drawer and began filing her nails to a sharp point. From there she used her left index finger to dig into the skin of her right arm. After a few minutes, she managed to make the cut deep enough and painful enough for her liking. She started to make another one, but this time directly on the inside of her wrist. This time she would cut vertically rather than horizontally. This time she would cut directly with her vein. This time, she would hope to take her life. This time she would silence the thoughts in her head. This time everything would end.

She took a deep breath as she began her incisions and brutal attacks of her wrist. She tried to angle her nail so that it would take as few times as possible to break skin and cut deep enough to do damage. She prepared herself for a physical pain stronger than normal since it would be directly on a vain and tracing the vein. She took part of the blanket and shoved it in her mouth to prevent any possible noises from escaping too loudly. She traced with her nail feverously and continuously with determination she didn't even know she had. She muffled a small scream as she finally completely broke the skin of her wrist. The blood came out like a small little stream flowing slowly on a fall day with little wind. She continued up her arm as far as she could trace the small blue line. She then worked on the vein that she could see from her elbow up her bicep. She made sure to open the wounds as far as she could and as wide as she could to ensure maximum bleeding.

Thinking these cuts weren't going to be enough to kill her, fear slowly crept into her. She didn't want to dance on the edge of death this time. She wanted to fly over that edge with no parachute. She could only think of one place on her body that she could cut at the moment to help her achieve her goals. She reached her hand down to where her femoral vein was and set her nail atop it. She teased herself with it in a sense. She could do this right now – she finally had the strength to end it. To stop the thoughts. She had the means to do it and she was teetering on the edge of following through with her plan. She wasn't exactly sure why she was hesitating with it. Why couldn't she just dig into it and get it over with? Was it because she was secretly afraid to die? Not really. She didn't really care what happened after death. Was it Sherlock? What he said? No, he's a sociopath and didn't necessarily mean everything he said to her. He knew how to phrase things to get what he wanted. Then what? Frustrated with the thinking, she plunged her nail as hard and as far as she could into her skin, breaking the skin with first contact for once. This was the most physical pain she had ever been in while harming herself. She made sure to cut with the vein.

Once she felt she had done a good enough job – and once she felt extremely tired and fairly dizzy – she checked her wrist and her arm one last time making sure it was as open as it could be. When she was content with her handiwork, she wrapped herself in her blankets and sheets and waited for an unconscious sleep to overtake her. She was only awake for about five more minutes before she started slipping into a black abyss. The last thing she saw was the bedside clock. She had been arguing with herself and staring into nothingness for a few hours as the clock was telling her it was almost midnight. Her last coherent thought was that in the multiple hours she had been in her room, Sherlock hadn't checked on her or anything once. She was right. She didn't count.

Sherlock had been in Molly's lounge for quite some time, contemplating how to further handle this situation. He would have to use care which was something he seldom utilized. He had to think of the consequences of his words and actions. He had to do everything that he wasn't used to. One wrong word, one wrong action could lead to the death of a good friend. A good friend that he didn't want to die under any circumstance – be it by her hand or someone else's. He had been mulling over all these thoughts and thinking of how to better handle and assess the situation. However, all this thinking and Mind Palace searching had worn him out. For once, he had to sleep at least for a couple hours. This proved to be a deadly move.

He awoke at around four in the morning with a slight headache, but it wasn't anything out of the ordinary when he was thinking this hard and searching his Mind Palace so vigorously. He ignored it and got up. He could tell something was wrong as soon as he opened his eyes and he could hear a deafening silence. No noise of any kind coming from anywhere in the flat. Sure, it was four in the morning, but surely he should hear something, right? Shouldn't he at least hear Molly tossing or turning in bed? Hear the soft noise of her breathing as she slept? He didn't hear anything. He began to worry and rightfully so.

He made his way to her bedroom to check on her. As soon as he entered he could smell something foul. Something he recognized all too well: blood. He looked at her form and didn't see her breathing. He started to panic. He made his way over to her and began to see blood on her covers. He hurried at the sight and pulled back Molly's blankets and sheets. Sure enough, he saw what he feared most. He saw fresh cuts tracing the veins on her arm. He knew they were intentional and that this was the intended result. However, it didn't seem likely that these few cuts would cause her death on their own no matter how on point they were with her veins. Sherlock then noticed the blood near her leg. She was wearing her sweatpants, but the blood had soaked through and onto the sheets. The only way to know what happened for sure was to take the sweatpants off the girl. He did so meticulously and with care, seeing that she had cut her femoral veins. He checked for a pulse and found a very faint one. If he didn't do something now, she would be dead within a couple of hours.

He took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed his best friend's phone number. Typically he would opt to text, but this was far too serious to risk the text going unread or ignored. John picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?" he answered disoriented.

"John, come to Molly's flat immediately and bring IV bags and an intricate first aid kit."

"What? Sherlock? What happened?" Watson asked, now more awake than he had ever sounded.

"It's Molly. Get here now," he said.

"I need to know a little more than that so I know what will be necessary to bring."

"She tried to kill herself, John," Sherlock said and hung up the phone, trusting his friend. He then waited for him in the lounge of Molly's apartment.

He couldn't believe this had happened, especially under his watch. He was here the whole bloody time! How did he not know? Was he seriously so entrapped in his thoughts last night to notice anything? He didn't know. Evidently he was if he didn't even notice someone committing suicide in the bedroom down the hall. All he knew was that Molly was on the verge of death and it was his fault. Unwittingly, he had given her the permission she wanted to kill herself. He just hoped John got here in time and could bring her back.