As you guys have probably figured out, I'm only capable of updating about once a month. Sorry this is late, my computer had to get sent in for repairs and I just got it back. I sort of know where I'm going with this, buuuuut we'll see what actually happens. R&R y'all! Suggestions are also appreciated. Love ya.
Chapter 3
Sherlock rushed to the door as soon as he heard the familiar footsteps of John along with a pair that he didn't know as well, but could only assume was Mary's. All of this thinking and Mind Palace searching was driving him crazy. If he had to sit with himself for another five minutes he would shoot through the wall, and surely that was the last thing that needed to happen right now. Everything in his mind was cluttered; he couldn't navigate through the Mind Palace without tripping. It frustrated him to no end. Sure, he was used to being stumped but never once had he stumbled in his Mind Palace. Never once had he wanted to escape his Mind Palace. Never once would he have preferred to be in the presence of others just to be able to not have to think. Come to think of it, never once had he ever preferred to be with people.
He opened the door for John and his wife, both of them carrying bags of medical supplies. From what Sherlock could see, his friends had thought of everything to bring. They wasted no time with pleasantries, much to Sherlock's surprise and satisfaction; they all headed towards Molly's bedroom. John and Mary were just as shocked as Sherlock had been when they saw Molly, if not more. Obviously John knew that Molly was in danger, but he hadn't thought it was this bad, not yet at least. Mary, however, had absolutely no clue what she was going to see when they left their home around four-thirty in the morning. She had no idea how bad anything was. She may be a nurse, but this was different to her for some reason. Probably the same reason it was difficult for John: because this was their friend. This was their Molly. She and Molly had gone out for drinks just last week.
From the doorway, you would have thought Molly to be dead. It wasn't until they got to her and could touch her that they felt the little heat her body was still throwing off and the barely there pulse her heart was managing with the blood loss. Mary quickly analyzed the situation and saw where Molly had lost the most blood and began to bandage it up. She wrapped a hefty amount of gauze around her leg to get the bleeding of her femoral vein to stop. In the meantime, John had busied himself bandaging Molly's wrists and arms. He never in his lifetime would have expected this amount of self-harm from anyone. He had seen some pretty terrible things in his time, but never were they this bad. He tried to treat this like he would any other person, but alas he was not like Sherlock. He could not separate work and emotions very well. He wanted nothing more than to know why Molly had done this – any of this – to herself. What sent her over the edge? What started it all? They were questions nobody could answer, a fact that everyone was a little annoyed by.
Once Molly was all bandaged up, all they could do was hook her up to an IV for blood. Since John and Mary didn't know what blood type Molly was they only brought with them one bag of O negative blood – the universal donor. They also didn't know how Molly had tried to kill herself, so they assumed that it was probably pills. Obviously, their assumption was wrong and they realized they definitely didn't have enough blood to realistically help Molly. They exchanged an uneasy look which Sherlock noticed right away. It was a look that he certainly didn't want to see a doctor and a nurse exchanging, especially when it was about Molly.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked dangerously calm, in a voice so low-pitched you would have thought it came from a 400 pound man.
"We, uh," John stuttered, afraid of what Sherlock's reaction may be. "We didn't bring enough blood to be able to replenish what she's lost and actually help her. We were expecting an overdose, not a cut to death. We have one bag. We're going to need at least three more."
"Take mine," Sherlock said. Mary and John gave him odd looks, doubting that he and Molly had the same blood type since they didn't even know what blood type Molly was to begin with. "Don't worry. I'm O negative, I can give blood to her no matter what."
Sherlock pulled up his sleeve, exposing his veins for them to use. John saw the old puncture scars from when Sherlock used drugs. This made him feel moderately uncomfortable as he still got mad at Sherlock about that time in his life despite the fact that he hadn't used drugs recreationally for quite some time now. Or at least that's what he claimed. To John they all looked relatively new, but that could just be him overreacting due to his state of being – with Molly's suicide attempt and all.
Mary prepped Sherlock for the needle, also noticing his scars, though she was not nearly as discomforted as John. To her, that was just part of who Sherlock was, and if anyone knew about damaged and uncomfortable pasts, it was Mary. She began drawing the blood from Sherlock's arm. He didn't even so much as wince when Mary put the needle into his vein. Neither Mary nor Sherlock missed the pained expression in John's eyes, though he tried to hide it as best as he could.
Five filled blood bags later, Molly was hooked up to a steady blood supply and her vital signs seemed to be improving ever so slightly. It wasn't much, but all three of them were happy to take what they could get at the moment. None of them could stop thinking about how they could have prevented this… or worse, how they may have contributed to this. The same thought crossed everyone's mind as they stood in Molly's room: did I somehow lead her to this? What could I have done to stop her or at least help her? Outwardly, it appeared to have bothered Mary and John the most as they were medical professionals. The stress was evident in their furrowed brows and panicked eyes. However, inwardly, it affected Sherlock the most. He was here when it happened. He should have known what was going on. He never should have left Molly alone. He felt stupid and foolish, two things he rarely felt. He shouldn't have been thinking about his experience with this sort of thing from when he was trying to quit drugs. He should have been thinking about the exact situation at hand. He thought this would be an appropriate time to practice sympathy and empathy – two things he was utterly terrible at. Only now did he realize how wrong he was.
The moments of reflection and silence were soon over as Sherlock's mobile rang. It was his work colleague Greg Lestrade. The case. He totally forgot about the case with all the hectic things going on in front of him. This is exactly what he needed to be able to focus again. He may even be able to clear the clutter in his Mind Palace.
"I have to go. Surely you two can watch over Molly?" Sherlock asked John and Mary.
"I've got to work, Sherlock," Mary stated.
The two of them looked to John, praying that he would be able to stay with Molly. When he nodded his head, both Sherlock and Mary sighed in relief. Sherlock gave him a look as if to say thank you. He then left wordlessly, leaving John wondering how he could just take off on a case at a time like this. With their friend practically on her deathbed. He was also clueless as to how Sherlock was showing approximately zero emotion. Didn't this have any effect on him at all? He was the one that came to John in the first place for God's sake! He was the one that was initially concerned for Molly, yet here Sherlock was, showing no signs of distress during this terrible time.
John and Mary brought in chairs from the kitchen so they could sit with their beloved Molly. Slowly, they could see her breathing become deeper. Every few minutes either the nurse or the doctor would check the pathologist's blood pressure and found it to be rising-not by much and not very often, but rising nevertheless.
When eight o'clock rolled around, Mary had to leave for her shift at the hospital, but not before warning John that should Molly wake up, he is not to lecture her about what she has done or about anything really. She knew, though, despite her warning he was still very likely to lecture her or talk down to her in some way. Mary knew he wouldn't intend to sound mean, rude, and/or invasive, but to Molly it could very well sound that way. She just prayed that he wouldn't make things worse.
John continued to watch Molly, checking her pulse, her breathing, and her wounds every so often. Every time he did, he berated himself more and more. He should have seen this, right? He should have noticed her struggles before she decided she wanted to end it all. He should have noticed her strange behavior. He should have seen this coming. He should have been able to stop this. He was trained for this sort of thing. So why the fuck did he not notice anything sooner? Why the fuck didn't he do anything to help her? Try to talk to her more? Give her a friendly smile every now and then? Wasn't that his job? As a doctor, to see the signs and do something about it, but more importantly as a friend to be there for her when she needed someone.
He found himself soon dozing off in his chair. He knew he shouldn't fall asleep right now, but he couldn't help it. Unlike Sherlock, John needed to sleep. But it turned out his dreams weren't much better than reality. The scene in his mind was way too familiar; it was so vivid that it frightened him. It was Sherlock's "suicide" from a few years ago. Only this time it wasn't Sherlock; it was Molly. Only this time there was no phone call. Only this time there was no possibility of a talk-down. Only this time all he could do was watch passively. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He couldn't do anything.
He stood there at the bottom of St. Bart's looking at the auburn-haired woman. She stood atop the building looking as she always looked. A smile plastered on her petite face. She was wearing a jumper and slacks as usual. Nothing seemed to be amiss. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were quite possibly the most terrifying part about the scene lain in front of him. Her eyes weren't even truly eyes. They were hollow back holes. Red swirled about in them. That's when John truly realized what this actually meant. It was like his brain was trying to tell him something he already knew all along: just because people appear to be okay and normal on the outside doesn't mean they aren't severely struggling on the inside.
That didn't stop him from being upset with Molly, though. He was still angry. Still frustrated. Still confused. Just when he thought he couldn't possibly get more confused, words started appearing on Molly's body. It was as if she was being branded. The words first appeared on her arms in a light orange-red color. Then, he noticed a glowing coming from underneath her jumper. A bluish color. After thinking about it for a moment, he realized the colors reflected the intensity of which the fire burned. The only question was then what did each spot's intensity mean? Why were some of the spots branded hotter than others?
Before he had a chance to figure out the answers, he awoke with a jolt to the sound of coughing. Molly had started to come to. He looked at the clock and saw that it was about one in the afternoon. He heard Molly start to cough again as she began gasping for air. He quickly rushed into the kitchen and grabbed her a bottle of water to drink. She began opening her eyes and he slowly started to sit her upright in the bed, giving her the water bottle he had fetched. He was relieved that she had woken up, but not so much because he was glad that she was alive, which he completely was, as much because of the fact that she was on the last bag of blood they had for her.
She was still extremely pale compared to normal, but she did have much more color than she had when John had first arrived at her flat. Her hair was a complete and udder mess. Her breathing wasn't quite back to normal, the same goes for her blood pressure, but it was far from dead. Her eyes were paled from a chestnut brown to a champagne colored brown as if they were personifying the fadedness and lifelessness of Molly herself. Looking into them, he was reminded of his dream – if you could even call it a dream. She stared back blankly, absently. John wasn't even sure if she was actually looking at him. It seemed as though she was simply staring through him.
She was in fact looking at him, though, but not truly looking at him. Sure, he was in her field of vision but she was too busy trying to figure out what was going on to actually look at him. Was she finally dead? Was she in Hell? She knew for sure that if she was dead she certainly wasn't in Heaven. Heaven wouldn't look like her bedroom in her flat, and Heaven definitely didn't have John – not that she didn't like the guy, he just simply wasn't dead. No, her heaven would be reuniting with her family. Finally seeing her parents after so many years. Seeing her grandparents again. Everyone she had cared about who had died.
No, this was for worse than Heaven and close to, but not quite, Hell. This was reality. This was the real world. The world she tried so desperately to escape. That's when it hit her: she had failed. She was still alive despite her efforts to die. She thought she had finally done something right. But, behold, she was wrong. Here she was, breathing, and here John was, standing over her, watching her intently. That's also when she noticed the bag of blood attached to her, giving her a steady supply of blood. She silently cursed John for being a doctor and Sherlock's friend. Of course Sherlock called him. But the real question is why did Sherlock find her? Or more importantly: when?
She tried to speak, voice these questions, but all she managed to choke out was, "what?"
"It's okay, Molly," John tried to coax her. "Here. Drink some water."
She happily accepted the water bottle and began chugging it as if she had never had a sip of water in her life. Her throat felt so dry and hoarse that you would've thought that she had been walking through the desert for the past few years. She coughed some more, trying to clear her throat to talk to John. After a few minutes, she felt like she could finally speak comfortably and close to normal. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but John interrupted her.
"Why, Molly? Why'd you do it?"
"You're going to have to be quite a bit more specific," she said looking away, suddenly coy with him.
"Doesn't matter. Any of it. All of it. Anything. Just… open up for once. I think you owe us at least that much."
"I don't owe you anything. Any of you; Sherlock, you, Mary. None of you are owed anything. Just leave me be. Please."
"You don't deserve to be alone anymore. You threw that out the door when you did this," he said gesturing towards her in her broken and nearly-dead state. "Now please just tell me anything. Just one thing."
She sighed deeply, knowing he would never give up pestering her. Plus, better John than Sherlock, right? Sure it wasn't better than Mary, but she wasn't exactly an option at the moment. And how choosy could she be right now? The only thing she had to decide was what to tell him. She didn't want to talk about it, but she had to tell him something. Something that wasn't overly obvious, but also wouldn't prompt a conversation with him. Telling him why she did was out of the question because that would totally engage him in a conversation and some sort of doctor-y rant. Besides, she wasn't ready for telling anyone that much yet.
There wasn't much to tell him. After all, weren't the answers to most of the questions he could possibly have painstakingly obvious? All the typical questions of who, what, where, when, why, and how were so obvious that it would waste everyone's time to answer them, with the exception of why of course. Well, actually she could elaborate on when. When she decided this was the course she had to take. No, not last night when she realized she had an opportunity, but when she decided in general that this is what would have to happen.
She sighed and slowly began to let John into her head.
"I decided a long time ago, so really there was nothing you guys could have done had you known sooner. My mind was set. Granted, I didn't always intend for it to be last night, but I had always planned on doing it. It was easier than I expected, the execution."
"Well, if we had known sooner, it wouldn't have been."
"No, not easier like that. Sherlock's being here actually made me hesitate for a second. I meant that I thought I would have to battle myself a little more to actually do it, but I was ready for it. I am ready for it. I truly thought I would've had more to live for. Pretty foolish, huh?" she asked rhetorically, but John answered anyways.
"No," he sighed, "it's not. You do, Molly. You have so much to live for. You just don't see it yet, but you do. You have Toby for starters. What would happen to him when you've gone? Ever think of that? What about Mary? She would be devastated. So would I. Did you even bother to think of the consequences of your actions? And, Jesus, Molly, what about Sherlock?!"
"What about him! What would he possibly miss? Looking down on me? Saying horrible things to me? Being rude to me? Or will it simply be the lab access?" Molly asked daring him to answer.
Her eyes were so angry that John almost wanted to leave her be. Almost. He stared back at her, perhaps not with the intensity that she had, but some intensity nonetheless. The main difference was that he wasn't angry. He was mainly just confused as to why and how she could think so little of herself. How she could think that she hadn't anything to live for. How she couldn't see Sherlock's intentions and feelings for her. Sure, he wasn't great at showing emotion or communicating anything really, but if you could see past all of Sherlock's bullshit, then surely you could see his true feelings.
"I honestly don't know, Molly. It could be all of those things; it could be none of those things. But, one thing's for certain: he would miss you. I know you can't see it, but he does care for you. And if he doesn't matter much anymore, how about me, Mary, and Toby? You never did answer my question of what would happen to him."
"I have an acquaintance who would take him in."
"And my other questions?"
"To be completely honest, I would have to ask you a question first. And you have to tell the truth."
"Ask me anything."
"Let's say, this didn't go as well as it had. Let's say Sherlock stumbled in on me before I had decided to make that final cut and that he could easily have patched me up by myself. And, for pure amusement, let's say he kept you in the loop. Would you even be here right now?"
He struggled to answer the question. He wanted to say yes, with all of his heart he did, but if he were to be honest he knew he couldn't. He knew deep down that if he got that call, he would likely have gone on about his day as normal and perhaps stopped by at some point, but odds are he wouldn't be here right now with her. He thought they were friends, but he never dared to say they were close friends. Neither one of them knew much about the other, but clearly he didn't know anything about her. If he had, he would have seen this coming. He would have picked up on the signs. He would be here right now regardless of whether or not Sherlock called him for doctoral help.
He didn't want to tell her this, though. He didn't want to validate her actions. As a doctor he couldn't endorse this behavior, but as a friend he had an obligation to be honest with her. Now the question is, which comes first? Being a doctor or being a friend? He was a doctor long before becoming friends with Molly. Plus, wasn't her safety a little more important than their friendship? But, if he lies then he could lose her regardless of whether or not he puts her safety first. For once, he decided, he would put being a friend first. At least this way, she may start to trust him.
"No, I probably wouldn't."
"So then quit acting like you're my friend, and do us both the favor and quit acting like you're here because you care."
"You never answered my question. Again."
"Oh, I think I have."
He stood there for a moment trying to figure out how she had answered his question, though it hadn't seemed like she had. What was this supposed to mean? Granted, it probably did hurt or at least sting for her to hear that truth, but by the sounds of it she already knew what his answer was going to be. But then the actualization dawned on him: Molly didn't much care what happened to him and/or Mary because she didn't think she was cared about by them. She didn't care how her death would have affected them because she didn't think it would.
It hurt him, in a way, to realize and think that she thought so little of herself. How could she possibly think she meant nothing to anyone? How on God's green earth could she not know they cared? That Sherlock cared? That even one person cared? Was that really such a hard concept for her to grasp? Did she truly think it was impossible for someone – anyone – to love her? He had thought that she would have a least recognized Mary as a friend and have something to say on that matter, but she didn't appear to.
He looked at her more sincerely than he ever had, hoping that she would see the truth in his eyes since she didn't seem to be believing his words. Not that he blamed her or anything, it was just painful for him to see such hopelessness in her eyes. It was painful for him to see her go through this and it hurt him even more to think that she believed she had to go through this alone.
He pushed back a stray strand of hair from her face and gave her a smile. She didn't seem to notice though – it was as if he wasn't even there. She was just staring into nowhere. He knew he couldn't talk to her if she was going to be unresponsive. He kissed the top of her head and turned to go back to his chair when she unexpectedly asked him something.
"If Sherlock cared so much, where is he now?" she challenged.
"He got a call from Greg. Something about the case."
"Maybe I was wrong then. Maybe you are more of a friend than Sherlock," she said cryptically. John raised his eyebrows at her to ask for an explanation. "From what I've heard and seen, most friends would put a situation like this before work," she elaborated.
Outwardly, she smirked and laughed off the situation. Inwardly, however, was a completely different story. To her, the fact that Sherlock left just further proved that she didn't matter. That she didn't count. She knew this was selfish of her to think, but she couldn't help it. She knew she couldn't ask Sherlock to put her before a case – that simply wasn't who he was. Yet that's exactly what she was asking for in the back of her mind. She knew she was being unreasonable but she couldn't help it.
He came to her. Shouldn't he be here? He was the one trying to convince her she counted and that she shouldn't be doing what she was doing. So far he wasn't exactly doing a great job. How could he just get up and leave her after insisting that her actions were bad? Then again, he was a sociopath and she knew he couldn't house any real sympathy and compassion. So why did her mind betray and abuse her like this? Why did she keep thinking that he could? Why did she keep fooling herself into thinking that he cared?
Thinking all of this didn't help her either. She already felt worthless and shitty, and this just added on to it. She couldn't even do what she wanted to do to cease the thoughts – even if just for a moment – because John was there. Doing this with Sherlock in the living room was one thing, but doing it with John sitting in the chair by the window opposite her was another completely impossible thing.
Confusion the struck her. When had John moved to the chair and sat down? She had been spaced out with all of these overzealous thoughts that she hadn't even noticed – or seen for that matter. How long had it been? 10 minutes? 15? She didn't even know that her thoughts have been consuming her for a little over half an hour – going on 45 minutes. She had spent all of this time trying to answer questions that she couldn't some questions she well knew probably nobody could answer. However, there was still one question on her mind that she knew John could answer.
"Um, John?" she asked and he looked up at her. "How close was I? To dying, I mean?"
"Very. Gave us all a right good scare, you did. Lucky Sherlock found you when he did."
"Lucky? By whose definition?"
"Most people," he said sternly.
"Well then who's lucky? Because it sure as hell isn't me."
"Molly, yes you are. Why can't you see that? Why can't you see how this affects every-," he started raising his voice, but Molly interrupted him.
"You keep mentioning how this would and does affect everyone else, but how about how it affects me? Haven't you people ever stopped to think about that?"
John swallowed hard. He hadn't and God knows Sherlock hadn't. In situations like this, most people don't think about the one in danger. The only thing they think about is "fixing" a person who isn't broken in the first place. They only think about not having to worry about them anymore. They only worry about controlling that life.
He never meant to minimalize her feelings or anything of that nature. He wanted her to be happy – just not dead. Was that really so bad and wrong of him? Clearly Molly was ill and needed help. He was just trying to give her that help and offer her solace, but she wouldn't accept. That seemed to be the problem. Somehow he, Sherlock, and/or Mary had to get Molly to accept their help. They needed her to want to get better – to want to live again.
He looked back at Molly, who was eyeing her IV and the door. He also noticed that she seemed to be taking her pulse. When finished, she shrugged and moved her hand towards the needles on her opposite hand and arm. She began to slowly pull them out.
"Molly, no! What are you doing?"
"What? I have to pee. My pulse is fine. I'll survive going to the bathroom."
She finished pulling out the needles, disconnecting herself from the blood and nutrient bags. She crawled out of her bed slowly and meticulously, making her pain noticeable to anyone that could see her face – her pinched up face, her scrunched eyebrows, the barely audible whimper that escaped her lips.
"Starting to regret cutting that vein now?" John asked half serious, half joking, going to help her.
"In all fairness, it was meant to kill me," Molly said laughing a little bit.
John helped her get to the bathroom, but she ceased to be compliant with his aid once they reached the bathroom door.
"I can pee by myself, John," Molly said. He gave her a look, uneasy about leaving her alone. "Don't worry. I promise I won't do anything stupid and self-destructive. Swear on my parents' graves," she said holding up her right hand.
"Don't say that," he warned, "terrible things could happen."
"What's going to happen? They're already dead."
With that, she closed the door to the bathroom and left John standing there dumbfounded. There was nothing for him to say, really. Out of everything Molly could have possibly told him about her personal life, that's the bombshell she decides to drop? He expected her to start off with something small, something light. But what if this is something small and light in her life, he thought. That thought made him shiver a bit. Granted, it was a chilling realization, but on the other hand, he is the one who asked Molly to open up – to let him or one of the others in. who was he to get upset that she did exactly that?
He snapped out of his thoughts when he heard the toilet flush. The running water of the sink followed soon after. She opened the door and found herself standing face to face with her acting physician. When she went to move past him, he didn't budge. She mustered up a questioning and almost concerned face.
"How long have they been dead?" he asked.
"My parents? Since I was eighteen I think. Give or take."
"Is that why…?"
"Not entirely, but I suppose it is part of it."
As satisfied with that answer as he was going to get, he moved to Molly's side to help her get back to her bed. Once she sat down on the bed, she went directly for the first aid supplies that John and Mary had brought with them. She and John took off the gauze and other bandages she had on in order to replace them. She was still bleeding a bit in some places, but nowhere near enough to kill her anymore.
The antibiotics that were put on her wounds stung her greatly, so much so that she jumped a tad bit even though she knew it was coming and that it would hurt.
"Hey, John?" Molly broke the silence.
"Yeah?" he said looking up from renewing her bandaging.
"Most people would have just taken me to a hospital. Why didn't you?"
He was silent for several moments, finishing wrapping her up before getting up and returning to his chair. He looked into the brown eyes of his companion that were surrounded with a tired expression. The bags under her eyes only made her look sicker.
"Ask Sherlock." He finally responded, which silenced Molly. For the rest of the day.
