Hello my lovies! It has been so long since I gave you all an update and I am so sorry for that. Hopefully this will make up for and then some. Hopefully I'll have another update in a month or so, but if that doesn't happen please don't kill me. I want to thank everyone for sticking with this story and for reading and for reviewing. Hopefully this chapter isn't too confusing since I wrote most of this chapter over the course of two weeks late at night most nights. Let me know what you guys wanna see happen or if you are completely confused or anything. I love getting suggestions from you guys and love your criticisms. Thanks so much and here ya go! Enjoy!
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Chapter 6
When they arrived at her flat, it was a ton messier than they had left it. And by a ton messier, I mean completely destroyed. The curtains were torn, her magazines and books were all over the place, some glasses smashed in the kitchen. Molly took it all in, not completely sure how to feel about her surroundings. She should have been filled with fear or anger, but she wasn't. Sherlock feared for her safety more than she did which was equally alarming. The only thing Molly felt was relief when she heard the pip-pap of Toby's little paws on the hallway floor, walking towards her and Sherlock.
"Well, at least the cat is unharmed," Sherlock said, trying to find the silver lining, something he rarely did, but he thought it could offer some comfort to Molly.
"Well, yeah. What kind of psychopath would kill a cat?" Molly asked.
"Gee, I don't know, the same kind that would murder an innocent woman?"
Molly rolled her eyes at her companion before walking back into her bedroom. For the most part, it looked in tact – or as in tact it could be with a broken mirror. The only thing that was different was a large glass shard on the nightstand with a note on it with only her name printed on it. She picked it up and stared at it with such intent that Sherlock was afraid that she was going to do something to herself with it. She sat on her bed, only to stand up once more and pull back her sheets. Doing so, she saw something that she hadn't in a very long time: her class ring from university.
Under normal circumstances, it probably wouldn't rattle anyone to the bone. But, for Molly, it meant that Tom had dug up her father and taken it from his casket. She sat once again to think for a moment, but it was only a moment before she stood up once more to make her way into the living room and begin to put on her coat.
"Where are you possibly going now?" Sherlock asked her both annoyed and concerned.
"He dug up my father, so I'm pissed. I'm gonna find him, Sherlock. Nobody touches my family," she said getting angrier by the second, squeezing the glass shard in her hand so hard that her palm started to bleed, but she didn't feel it.
"Molly," Sherlock warned, looking at her hand.
She looked down at her hand noting the blood, but not caring too much. Sherlock walked closer to her, bringing her in for a tight embrace. For once, it seemed as though she trusted him, sinking into the hug. Sherlock thought this to be a good sign, but he couldn't see that she was using the glass shard. He did however, feel her blood begin to seep through the back of his shirt as they hugged. He looked at her with what seemed to be dismay while trying to wrestle the glass from her grasp. Eventually, however, he did get the glass from her as she fell to the ground, sobbing.
"This is all my fault," she repeated over and over and over again.
Sherlock sat next to her on the floor of her living room not quite sure of what to do or say to make her feel better. He didn't know why she thought all of this was her fault, but right now the why didn't matter. All that mattered was keeping her safe from both herself and Tom. She repeatedly asked for the shard of glass back, not having the strength to stand up or fight him for it. Desperate to feel anything besides her own emotional pain and anger, she dug her nails into her legs, scratching and clawing as if she was trying to physically get something off of her. He attempted to take her hands in his in order to get her to stop, but to both of their surprises, she kicked him in the stomach with strength neither of them knew she even had.
She got up off of the ground and made a run for her balcony, but Sherlock quickly caught up to her. Not that it mattered anyway – the doorknob was missing off of the balcony door which was locked. She looked behind her to Sherlock, steaming. Not only because he had removed her doorknob, but also because he had trapped her. She saw virtually no way out of the predicament she was in. She slid down the door and sat back on the floor, Sherlock sitting beside her. She held her hand out in front of him, but he didn't know what for.
"Come on, Sherlock. I know you always have a pack on you, don't try to bullshit me," she said.
He sighed in resignation, getting up to go to his coat. She knew him too well, knowing that he would always have a pack of cigarettes somewhere on his person. He tossed the pack over to her along with a lighter. She pulled one out of the pack that was mostly empty anyway and lit it, taking in a large drag.
"Didn't know you smoked," he said simply.
"Hm. Something the great Sherlock Holmes didn't know? Fascinating. Don't do it often. These things'll kill ya, ya know?" Molly said.
"Yeah, because what you already do won't." he said half-jokingly.
"Not on its own," she said taking a quick drag, puffing out the smoke with a large sigh.
"Why won't you talk to any of us? You talked to John for a moment, but then nothing. Why?"
"Because now you're actually listening," she answered easily. "It was one thing when you guys were pretending to listen, never actually taking in what I say. But, now you're all listening intently and I will not let you all hear. I can't."
"Well, you're either going to talk to us or you'll be explaining this to Mike and Greg," he countered.
"Yeah, sure. Like, they'll believe a drug addict," she laughed off.
"Ex-drug addict. Why is that so hard for everyone to grasp? But you're right, no they won't. But they will believe a doctor, won't they?"
"Fine. You've got me in a corner, I guess."
"Great! Let's go."
"I'm sorry, go where?" she asked.
"My flat. They're already there," he said, standing up, looking at her.
She sighed and put out her cigarette on her hand, making Sherlock cringe a little bit. The only solace he really had was that she was going to talk. She bit her lip and smiled, feeling a bit of euphoria coursing through her veins. She stood up and walked to the door, waiting for Sherlock to follow her. She heard his footsteps and proceeded to make her way out to the street to hail a cab.
After the longest silent cab ride of her life, they finally arrived to Baker Street. Molly was led in by Sherlock and greeted by John and Mary at Sherlock's door. She lay on the couch as Sherlock and John took their respective chairs and Mary sat beside her. They all seemed to just stare at Molly, expecting her to just tell them everything, let everything spill, but she never did. She calmly looked at the three of them and realized this expectation and began to chuckle.
"You guys don't seriously expect me to just fill in every gap at once do you? You get to ask specific questions to which I will provide honest answers. Nothing generic as in no asking just simply why. Understood?" she asked, meeting each of their eyes.
"What did you mean when you said it was your fault that this is happening?" Sherlock was the first to ask.
She took a moment to form a calculated answer that would allow her to say the bare minimum and responded with, "I shouldn't have said 'no'."
Mary was the first person to say anything as she knew exactly what Molly was implying, whereas the boys didn't. Most men wouldn't even comment on the subject or take any kind of stance at all, but being a woman Mary felt it was her duty to help a fellow woman because to her, this topic shouldn't be ignored by anyone regardless of gender or sexuality.
"Molly," Mary began, "you didn't owe him anything, especially not your body. This is not your fault."
"His real issue wasn't that I said no, it's that I fought back."
"Molly-," John began, but was quickly interrupted by Molly.
"Save it. Next question."
"Family?" John asked.
"Specify."
"What're they like?"
"Dead. I told you that already or weren't you listening?" she challenged him.
"Everyone?" asked Mary, growing more concerned for the lonely woman next to her.
"Yeah. Dad had cancer, nobody knows what happened to our mum."
"Our?" Sherlock asked. "There's more than one Hooper?"
"Was. There was more than one Hooper. He's six feet under. Drank himself to death after Dad went."
"When did you start? It clearly wasn't recently, though it has surely been more frequently lately," Sherlock said.
"Sometime in secondary. And no, I don't remember why, I don't remember how. I just remember. It's been ruining my life since I was thirteen."
"What's made it worse?" Sherlock asked, seemingly caring more about where she is going versus where she was. He thought maybe if he could fix it, she would be okay.
"You get bored, you shoot up. I get bored, I play a game called Will I Wake Up. It's the only way to silence my head for a few lovely moments. When I close my eyes, I can feel him on me. Sometimes I just don't sleep, other times I try to feel something."
Sherlock, John, and Mary all looked to each other, new information bombarding their brains with nothing to do with the information. They didn't truly understand, but they were getting the picture, however, Molly's answers were very calculated and deliberate and even in her answers, there was still mystery. She only told part of the truth to each question, never actually answering in full, just answering satisfactory answers with as little information as possible. The three of them only suspected that, though. They couldn't exactly force her to expand because they were just happy they were getting any kind of answer.
Molly was exhausted in every form of the word, but remained with the trio sat before her. She hoped they were out of questions for her because she was too tired to continue to articulate carefully constructed answers for them. They appeared to be finished with the conversation for now, though she knew it wasn't over for good. She began to drift off into sleep, which she was wary of; she wasn't certain if it would be restful or if she'd be waking up screaming which she found herself doing more often than not.
Noticing her drift off, Sherlock picked her up to move her to his bed. It's not like he was going to use it anyway, so why should she have to sleep on the couch? He gently placed her on the bed and put a blanket over her resting form. He made sure to close the door quietly as to not wake her up. When he got back into the living room, he put his coat and scarf on, preparing to do some research.
"Where are you going?" John asked him.
"To find answers. You coming?"
"Shouldn't someone be here with Molly, if not in the same room as her?"
"Mary will stay. I think she's fine not having someone watch over her sleep right now. So, are you coming or not?"
"Go!" Mary urged her boys. "I can take care of Molly. You two go find out what going on with the dead friend."
As the two men exited the flat, Mary was left alone with a sleeping Molly in the other room. She wasn't sure what to make of the situation she was in. She thought of Molly as a close friend, but apparently those thoughts weren't reciprocated. She never even thought of Molly as being in danger from her herself. There was never any obvious signs, but then again, there rarely was in these types of situations. Maybe there was signs, but she just didn't want to see them. Maybe it was lack of two-way communication.
The more she thought about it, Molly rarely talked about herself. Whenever Mary would ask Molly something personal, she would give a half-assed answer and turn the conversation back towards Mary. She didn't even know Molly's family was dead. She never knew she had a brother. There was so much she didn't know about the woman she would easily consider her best friend. There was so much she wanted to do for her friend, but couldn't. Not on her own anyways. She wondered how to help Molly, especially when Molly didn't seem to want any help. It's not even as if she didn't understand the dangers of what she was doing to herself; she just didn't care.
She wondered what it was like in Molly's head; how waking up feels; how dreaming of not waking up feels. She thought if maybe she could get a glimpse of what it was really like for Molly, she would understand how she was who she was. But then again, maybe she didn't want to. If Molly, who was used to it, couldn't handle what it was like in there, then how could she expect herself to. She only wanted to know how. How it was so easy for her to do these things to herself. How it was so easy to dismiss herself as someone worthy of living and being loved. How she could so easily put on a façade for years without having anyone notice. How she ended up slipping through the cracks and being invisible.
Of course, there were no easy answers to any of the questions she had. She knew she couldn't actually get a real glimpse of her mind and how it actually works and thinks. She knew there was a small probability of actually getting any of these answers out of Molly. The one thing, though, that she really wanted to know, no, needed to know, was why Molly thought she couldn't trust her, John or Sherlock with anything. Okay, well, she understood why she didn't trust Sherlock and open up to him, but she always thought that she and John were people that their friends could be open and honest with. She expected Sherlock to shut them out, but at least they knew he trusted them. With Molly, everything was up in the air and nothing was clear.
It pained her to see her like this, but there wasn't much she could do. She was breaking from the inside out and all anyone could really do was watch it happen. It's not like they wanted to, it's just all they could do. They couldn't stop watching it happen because they didn't want to leave her to herself. They couldn't stand to watch it either though, but it was the only way to stay with her. She thought about maybe taking Molly to a hospital where she could get real help, but she knew as soon as that happened, all hopes of Molly trusting them and letting them in would be obliterated. She also knew that as soon as Molly would step foot in a hospital, she would no longer truly be a person. She would simply be another patient to examine and scrutinize.
Tired of being alone with these thoughts, she got up to check on Molly. She cracked open the door to Sherlock's bedroom and saw the form of a sleeping Molly, gently snoring. She seemed peaceful, but Mary wasn't looking close enough to see that Molly's breathing was actually quite rapid and panicky because Molly's sleep was anything but peaceful.
By now, Molly was used to having nightmares, but lately they've been getting weirder and weirder. She didn't know what was going to happen in her brain each night; what would be waiting for her when she finally allowed herself to get rest. There was so many possibilities whenever she went to sleep. She could relive what happened with Tom. She could be reunited with her family, everyone smiling and happy. She could relive every horrible moment where Sherlock just couldn't keep his mouth shut and end up hurting her. Tonight, though, none of that happened. Tonight it was different.
The smell of sea water was fresh and overpowering. Seagulls rang in the distance and a light breeze hit Molly's face. The house she was in front of was the same one that she had been blocking out of her mind since she went away to university. The same one where so many horrible memories played out. The same one where so long ago she loved. Sure, she remembered the happy memories, but they were so few and far that the bad ones overpowered. She tried her damnedest to focus on the few happy memories she could remember.
She could see herself and Aiden playing football in the small backyard. She could see where the goal once stood. Where she first learnt to ride a bike. Where she would lay and read a book on summer days. She could see better times. But she could also see all the bad memories playing out.
She could hear her parents screaming at each other. She could hear her brother crying in the room adjacent hers. She could hear the other children taunting her. She could see where Aiden had his first dalliance with alcohol and how she just knew that this wouldn't end well for him. She could picture her mother leaving and never coming back, leaving her and Aiden with just their father, who had always fancied a drink, but never like he did when their mother left. She remembered all the times where she had to be the parent to her brother and her father. She played the memory of her first cut over and over and over. She remembered the feeling of slight control over her life that it gave her and subsequently the feeling of needing more.
She scratched at her arm, recalling the feeling and wanting it again. But, before she could do anything, the scene changed. She suddenly no longer felt a breeze. She no longer heard seagulls or smelled the ocean air. She was back in London, but not her London. This London was quiet. This London didn't have busy streets. This London didn't have people on the sidewalks or in the shops or in the restaurants. This London was far worse than the real London because she was the only one there. Or at least she thought she was.
She heard a gunshot and for some reason started heading in the direction of the sound. There was a second shot from the same direction, then a third. Her gut sank as she found herself standing at Baker Street. She argued with herself as to whether or not she should go in. Sherlock could have just been shooting at his damn wall again. But she knew that wasn't the reason for the shots. She knew she had to go in and face what was in there. She sighed and dug deep down to find the courage to open the door and walk up the stairs to the flat she was ever-so familiar with.
She bit down on her lip as she opened the door knowing that what she saw wasn't going to be pretty. She opened the door to find Mary, John, and Sherlock dead. She stifled a small cry and tried to find a pulse in any of them only to find nothing. This was all her fault and she knew it. This is why she didn't let herself get close to people. Because whenever she did, bad things happened. She didn't physically pull the trigger, but she may as well have. If she had just gone a few days sooner, none of this would have happened. If she had just worn a sweater with longer sleeves, they wouldn't be attached to all of this. If she hadn't said no and if she hadn't struggled, maybe things wouldn't be this way.
She could feel herself losing control of her mind. It was a feeling she was all too familiar with. She looked around for something, anything, she could use, but found nothing. She ran into the kitchen, but there was nothing. No knives, no scissors, nothing. She went back into the living room and sat next to her dead friends and began to sob violently. She thought she was going to have to sit there in despair, but then she heard the cocking of a gun. She knew her fate and was relieved. She patiently waited for the bullet to pierce her skin, but when the trigger was pulled and the shot sounded she didn't get her death.
Molly awoke with a start, eyes wide, breath quick and shallow. She was trying to figure out where she was because she knew for damn sure it wasn't her room. As she calmed down, she remembered that she was in Sherlock's flat and therefore his bed. She turned on the lamp that sat on the bedside table. She thought that being able to see her surroundings would bring some peace, but as soon as she saw that there was something on the table, all hopes of peace were gone. It was a tape recorded and she just knew that it wasn't put there by either of the Watsons or from Sherlock. Her stomach dropped when she realized what that meant. Tom had been here. He had been in the same room as her. He had seen her sleep.
She hesitantly picked up the recorder and pressed play.
"I miss you. Do you miss me?" asked the voice.
She instantly knew something was off about that recording. Something wasn't right and wasn't lining up. She practically ran out of the room shouting for John, Mary, and Sherlock. Mary, who had drifted off after checking on Molly, quickly awoke asking Molly what was wrong and if she was okay.
"Where's Sherlock and John? They should be here for this," Molly said talking at a rate that was way faster than normal.
"They went out to gather intel. What's wrong, Molly?"
Molly played the recording for Mary, who was shocked and ashamed all at the same time. How could he have gotten in here? How could she have been so foolish as to fall asleep when her friend's life was in danger from both Tom and herself. Her thoughts were interrupted by Molly.
"Don't you get it?" Molly asked.
"Get what? That Tom managed to get in here? That I messed up? What am I missing?"
"No!" she yelled, exasperatedly. "That's just it! It's not Tom! Tom isn't Irish!"
