WARNING: VISUAL DEPICTION OF SELF-HARM
God, what have I gotten myself into?
Bodies. Bodies everywhere. But not the kind she's used to – not the dead kind. She can handle the pungent smell of formaldehyde, and she's no stranger to cold, taut, clammy flesh underneath her fingertips. But this – this is different. The stench of sweat and sex and expensive cocktails permeates the humid summer air. She can feel the closeness of the crowd of strangers that surrounds her. The sensation of burning, sweat-slicked skin grazing her own lingers, even when the strangers break contact. She can't hear anything over the steady beat of the dance music, but she can see strangers whispering in each other's ears in search of someone to take home with them tonight. She feels the errant hand on her bum, usually followed by a pair of expensive jeans grinding against her as she moves to the music.
Out – I have to get out. Can't breathe... She stumbles out of the mass of bodies on the dance floor, walking swiftly toward the nearby side entrance to the club. As she throws open the metal door, fresh air floods her lungs, allowing a blissful moment of respite. Closing her eyes and leaning with her back against the cool brick exterior of the building, she tries to calm her ragged breathing. She looks down, observing the severe tremors in her panic-frozen hands. She rolls her eyes inwardly at herself. Seriously? I make contact with another human being and have a full-blown panic attack? Still, she can't stop staring at those hands – she's positively transfixed by the way that they look, gripping the air as if it were a solid mass, and the way that they shake all the way up to her elbows. With her arms out in front of her, her hands still frozen, she tries to calm herself. Strangely enough, what calms her isn't the backs of her eyelids or the feel of fresh air – her breathing becomes steady at the sight of her scarred forearms.
It wasn't until after she and Tom broke up that Molly began using her arms (this isn't because of him, mind you; it's just that, with Tom gone, no one would be looking). They're recent marks, slices in crooked lines from her wrists to the creases of her elbows, and they're more obvious than her lipstick. Tonight, however, she's at the club with a friend and that friend's group of other friends. She donned a tight, black, off-the-shoulder tee and dark skinny jeans, with a pair of low-heel black boots. With her hair down and a bit of make-up, Molly feels sexy for the first time in ages. It'll be dark, she reasons. No one will see. I'll wear my jacket and take it off when I get there. That way, I'm comfortable and no one sees. Now she stands, poring over her arms, not able to tell if the burning feeling of sweat in her fresh cuts is a good feeling or a bad feeling. It's both.
"Well, well – fancy seeing you here, Dr Hooper."
What... what the hell is he – oh christ, forget it. Just hide your sodding arms!
Molly turns to face the voice, keeping her arms clasped in front of her so that her cuts face her shirt. From further down in the alleyway, she sees Sherlock Holmes, Belstaff and all, smoking a cigarette. "Sherlock!" She can't help sounding surprised. "What are you doing here? I wouldn't peg this as your kind of scene."
He looks at her straight in the eyes for a few seconds. "Likewise."
"I... I came to hang out with friends."
"Friends?! What friends?" he asks, sounding absolutely baffled by the notion. "You have other friends?"
"Yes, Sherlock -" she sighs, remembering that he's not the most socially adept person, "contrary to what you may think to be true, I do have a life outside of Barts' morgue." He cocks his head at her, narrowing his eyes. "Okay, well, sort of. It's small, but not totally non-existent."
"Pardon me, I'm still reeling from the sight of you with your hair down, showing off cleavage and wearing high-heeled boots."
She rolls her eyes. "What do you need from me? You know, flattery doesn't work on me anymore. I can tell you're being insincere by the pained expression on your face."
He huffs. "I need someone to search the dance floor for this man," he says, holding his mobile up to Molly. "He knows I'm on his trail. He should be here tonight, and he won't be expecting me. I've lost John and Mary – I think they've gone to the loo to distract themselves from the mission – and I've grown impatient."
Molly hesitates. "Show me that photo one more time."
"Hey Molly, it's John. Er, I – well, Mary and I just wanted to thank you for all of your help last night. We wouldn't have caught the guy without you. I'm sure Sherlock's just as grateful – he's just rubbish with that sort of thing, you know. Well anyway, thanks again! Don't be surprised if Sherlock contacts you again for help on a case – I think that's how he compliments people, by allowing them to grace his presence. You can say no, Mol. You don't have to help him. Anyway, kettle's just boiled. Thanks again, Molly. Ta!"
Molly gets a laugh out of John's long-winded voice-mail. She shoots him a text, saying: "It was a pleasure, John. Any time."
Molly sighs inwardly. She hates having days off – having nothing to occupy her – and as ridiculous as it may seem, Molly loves her job, and she's damn good at it too. Ugh. What is there to even do? There's the telly, I suppose. I could catch up with my DVR. I could go to the market and get some actual food. I could get a hair cut. Ooh, that sounds like it could be fun. Oh, and I can't forget to get a gift for Mary's baby shower!
After slipping into jeans and a thick, comfy jumper, Molly sets out for her day on the town. And by, day on the town, she means three hours on the town. Still, it's something she can Tweet about to make it seem like she has a life – maybe then her friends won't worry about her so much (for the record, they don't know about Molly's vices – not a soul on the planet knows about her vices – so their worry stems from somewhere else entirely).
Three hours and several purchases later, Molly returns home with bags in each hand. After putting away the groceries and her new clothes and after wrapping Mary's baby shower gift, Molly admires her new hair cut in her bedroom mirror. She tries on some of her new clothes in different combinations. She notices how her posture has shifted from slumped to upright, and she wonders if it's the hair, or maybe the shoes, or even the outfit. She feels good.
And then she doesn't.
You don't look any different, you moron. What, you think an inch off of your hair and a new wardrobe of your same old style will make you look any less pathetic? And newsflash, sweetheart: you can't buy new friends or a better personality. You're a lost cause – and no amount of make-up or new clothes or fake smiles is going to change that. You can't fix your shitty personality, your stutter, your too-small breasts, your too-small lips, or your awful figure. You're just a fucking coward, Molly Hooper. Face it, sweetie – you're hopeless. Irreparable. Your time would be better spent doing something productive.
Molly listens to the voice in her head. She nods, crying, whimpering, "I know. Christ, I know." I know what "something productive" means. It means that, to find relief, one must dig deeper into the agony, causing more pain, breaking the physical/metaphorical surface to ease her suffering. It makes her feel worse, always, but it gives her more reason to hate herself and it assures her that her pain is real. Furthermore, it gives her a physical reminder – a twinge of pain here or there all day, every day – of what she is. Or what she isn't, rather. The thing is that, if the twinges of pain are constant throughout the day, and Molly is always aware of them, then the Monster can't disturb her – it has nothing more to say.
With that being said, Molly makes something of a ritual out of the act: every week or so, or whenever the previous cuts have healed, she moves into the loo and locks the door (even though she lives alone). She takes the well-worn cigar box out from underneath the sink, opening it and re-evaluating the state of her supplies. The cigar box holds scissors, a roll of medical tape, countless packages of sterile gauze pads and rolls, alcohol wipes, and an assortment of plasters in various shapes and sizes. Underneath the first aid accoutrements lies a smaller cardboard jewellery box (like the kind with the removable lid that you get with a new charm bracelet). The sinister little silver box holds Molly's personal choice of weapon – a pocketknife – wrapped loosely in a tissue.
She's used the same exact instrument since the very beginning, in fact. The very first time she used it, it was really just a matter of convenience: it was the closest and sharpest thing nearby that wasn't guaranteed to cause an infection. The pocketknife was something her father gave her, for use when he took her hiking or fishing or camping. He trusted her with it, knowing she was never violent toward anyone.
Not toward anyone but herself, Molly later learned.
Molly's ritual is precise. She begins by roughly sterilizing her skin and the instrument with an alcohol wipe, and when she presses the blade to her skin, she never makes more than four or five marks in one area (because otherwise, she'd never be able to blame it on the cat if a situation were to arise). She then rubs the cuts with a new alcohol wipe, letting the solution seep into the now red and prominent little marks. The alcohol burns like hell, in an oddly satisfying way. Molly watches the remnants bleed out for a few precious minutes, irritating it with the alcohol every so often to prolong the experience, before pressing gauze to the affected area. Once the bleeding has slowed, Molly applies a generous amount of antibacterial ointment to the marks before covering them with an appropriately-sized plaster. Sometimes, if the damage is extensive, she tapes gauze to the area in lieu of its flimsy counterpart. When Molly finishes her routine, she puts everything back in its proper place: the pocketknife in its little box, the supplies in the cigar box, the cigar box under the sink, and the evidence in the rubbish bin.
I shouldn't be using my arms – but I'm running out of space. Molly looks down at her idiocy – her now fresh cuts, wrapped in rolled gauze, placed on her left wrist this time – someone is going to notice.
This is one of those times when the Monster rears its ugly head. No, they won't Molly. There's no one that would even be looking. And, more importantly, there's no one who cares.
You're right. Absolutely right. I don't need to hide at home – just when I go to work or go out (but how often does that happen, really?). Molly sighs, relieved now that she understands that she doesn't have to hide her shame.
After changing out of her day clothes into pyjama trousers and a tee shirt, Molly plops down on her sofa and resolves to watch everything she has recorded in her DVR.
Christ, where is this guy? Oh. Molly spots her target across the dance floor. Criminals should not be allowed to be that good-looking. The man is tall and muscular, dressed in clothes that are far too expensive to belong at a club like this. Sherlock said that he'd be impossible to ambush physically, and he's already gotten away twice. He has body guards at either exit to make sure he's safe. No smart person would try to attack him here.
Sherlock Holmes will be the fucking death of me.
With more stealth than she thinks she can manage, Molly makes her way across the dance floor. The end result: Molly Hooper grinding her arse against the man's lap. He puts his hands on her hips, swaying her along with him to the beat of the song. She leans back against his chest and looks into his eyes for the first time – and she sees a fiery passion there that should be saved for romance films. He quickly twirls her around and puts his hands on her hips as they were before. This time, however, he leans in, moving one sweaty hand to the nape of her neck. His breath is warm on her skin as he leans in and says, "You're a feisty one, aren't you?" She nods. "Oh, I could just eat you up."
Biting her lip, she turns to him and replies in a breathy tone, "Would you like to?" Without words, he takes her hand and guides it to the growing erection in his trousers. She bites her lip and smirks, grabbing the man's wrist and heading straight for the exit. Before she can wrench the door open, however, he pins her to the wall next to the exit, kissing her furiously. In a tangled mess of limbs and sweaty flesh, they stumble out of the exit, and Molly quickly finds herself pinned to the nearest wall. He cages her in with his arms on either side of her head as he kisses and nips at her neck. She moans for good measure.
Thankfully, before the man has time to go any further, a wonderfully familiar face approaches them from behind. At the touch of handcuffs, the man is surprised and furious, and he looks at Molly as if she were the definition of a succubus. Suddenly, John and Mary are upon her, wrapping her in her jacket from inside. The air is tense, and Mary is the first to speak.
"Who are you and what the hell have you done with Molly Hooper?"
The three laugh. Molly feels like scum. "I think she's still inside somewhere, probably crying in the loo."
Off in the distance, Molly can see Sherlock arguing with Lestrade about something, but what else is new?
"No, but really, Mol – that was incredibly badass." John looks mesmerised. Mary looks smug.
Molly turns to Mary and mutters, "Is it bad that I thought he was a spectacular kisser?"
"That lot usually are. Probably a great shag as well."
"Well, if his dancing is anything to go by..."
Molly is an hour and a half into her programming when she hears a firm knock at the door. Checking through the peep hole, Molly sees Sherlock standing outside, looking feverish and panicked. She quickly throws on a hoodie and opens the door. Sherlock stumbles inside, panting, and Molly asks, "What's going on, Sherlock?"
"I need..." he pauses to take a single deep breath, steeling himself. He stands up a bit straighter before continuing. "I need to stay here. Just for a little while."
What's wrong with him? She watches him closely, cataloguing all of his observable physiological responses: elevated pulse, moderate to severe mydriasis, sweaty palms, heavy breathing, jaw clenching, over-salivating, tremors in hands... Only an idiot could mistake this for something else. Molly prays that she's the idiot (who's completely dead wrong).
Nervously, she asks, "What's wrong?"
"Please don't be angry with me. You trust me; I need to know right now that – no matter what I tell you – you'll still trust me." Molly folds her arms across her chest, which Sherlock takes as a sign of reluctant assurance. "I'm... high," he starts. I knew it. "I'm high and I can't go home because Lestrade will be waiting for me there, not to mention John and Mycroft. It's supposedly a 'danger night' for me, whatever the hell that means..."
"So you want to hide here – to evade getting scolded by Lestrade and John for being a reckless git?"
He looks at her for a moment. "Precisely."
"You do remember that, last time I saw you high, I slapped you thrice across the face, right?"
"Yes, and I do apologise for being an arse that day," he says, dramatically flopping down onto her sofa. "But you, Dr Hooper, you are the most forgiving, most trustworthy person I know. I would say that you're the most loyal as well, but you and I both know that John takes the cake on that one," he remarks, earning a reluctant smirk from Molly. "Regardless, I know that you'll be cross with me for a bit, but your undying urge to take care of me will overwhelm that anger soon enough."
She huffs, not wanting to concede, but he's right. Of course he's right. She considers her options before rolling her eyes and grumbling, "Go take a shower. You know where the wash room is – towels are in the cupboard. I'll leave something out in my room for you to wear. When you finish, I'll have tea and something to eat waiting for you in the kitchen. My only condition is that you must eat."
"Make that coffee. You know how I take it." Sherlock grins, the pull at the corners of his mouth looking more like a grimace than a smile. "Molly Hooper, I am forever in your debt." In a frenzy, he forcefully plants a kiss on her forehead, then starts down the hall toward the loo.
"I'll put it on your tab." This earns a hearty laugh from Sherlock. She can't help but grin at her own humour.
As she sets out toward her room to go through the clothes that Tom left at her flat, she recounts her conversation with Sherlock. He's only being kind – and by 'being kind,' I mean not being awful – because he needs me. He needs me how he always does. And of course I'll give him everything he asks for. She lays out a heather grey tee shirt and a pair of navy blue sweatpants.
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock emerges from Molly's bedroom wearing the clothes that she laid out for him. Damn him for filling out that tee shirt so perfectly. God, I should've given him a looser one... for my sake, at the very least. He heads into the kitchen, finding a cup of coffee (black, two sugars) waiting for him on the table alongside a plate with a sandwich on it. Grabbing both, Sherlock joins Molly in her sitting room, gently placing his food and drink on the side table before (again) dramatically flopping down onto the sofa next to where Molly sits. He lands close to her, with his head back, resting it on the back of the cushion. He turns his head slowly and looks to Molly, observing her for a long moment before his face slowly breaks out into a smile. However, as quickly as it appeared, it's gone. Sherlock swiftly kicks his feet up onto the coffee table in front of him then moves his plate onto his lap.
As Sherlock is stuffing the sandwich into his mouth, Molly finally works up the courage to pause her programme and ask, "What was it this time?"
"How do you mean?" he replies with a mouthful of sandwich.
"You know exactly what I mean."
He sighs. "There were multiple... contributing factors." He looks down to his plate, hiding his face in shame (not shame for doing the drugs, but shame for being forced to explain himself like a child). "Last night, there was a lot of – a lot of heroin and alcohol and marijuana. This morning, I snorted a few lines of cocaine, I think. I... I smoked some crack around early afternoon, too. I chain-smoked cigarette after cigarette before finally deciding to come here. That's all, I swear."
"That's all? Sherlock, you're a graduate chemist, for christ's sake – aren't you aware of the number of malevolent drug interactions you are risking by ingesting substances from all different categories at once?"
"I am well aware. The real question is: do I actually care?" His tone is condescending, but Molly can't be fooled by his display. He uses this tactic to make himself look less helpless. It's not working – it's only serving to make Molly feel more sad. "The answer, dear pathologist, is no."
"That's an awful shame, Sherlock," Molly says as she gets up to get a glass of water for him in the kitchen. "You really probably shouldn't devalue yourself so much; after all, you are all that you have." As she hands him the glass and sits back down, she mocks, "'Alone is what I have.' Isn't that right, Sherlock?"
"Not necessarily," he says nonchalantly. "I have you. I alwayshave you. And Mrs. Hudson. And John, for the most part. I've long accepted the fact that I... need others to live up to my potential. I no longer feel that I am totally alone. I mean, if anything, I'll always have Mycroft. I mean, I can't seem to get rid of him even when I want to."
Molly tries not to show how depleted she feels at his mere presence in her flat. Getting to work, Molly lugs a rather large duffel bag out of the bathroom cupboard, setting it at Sherlock's side. Wordlessly, she sets up an IV to get some fluids into him, watching some more telly until the bag runs out completely. She feels his head for a temperature, trying not to linger too long should he think that she's completely forgiven him. She also takes his blood pressure, her concern for his health slowly increasing. While she works to put the IV equipment away, she brings out a few vials of medication and a few syringes. As she preps each syringe, she says, "Alright, I'm giving you some Paracetamol for the fever." Her voice is flat and emotionless. "And I'll administer a benzodiazepine for the tachycardia and the elevated blood pressure." She finishes and packs up the duffel bag, leaving it next to him just in case she needs it again. From where she kneels on the floor, she sighs, saying, "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do for you. If you have a seizure or a stroke, I'm calling you an ambulance, and that's final."
"Oh Molly, don't doubt yourself so much." He doesn't mean this kindly; he doesn't reassure her for her sake. "I am one-hundred percent confident in your abilities to combat my condition. You're much more competent in the field of emergency medical treatment than you believe yourself to be. You've had plenty of experience with me."
"… Yes, with prying bullets from your body and stitching up gun shot wounds. I shouldn't know how to treat cocaine intoxication at pre-overdose levels – let alone have the emergency equipment at my bloody flat."
"Yes, why do you have those things here? The intravenous fluids I understand, yes, as well as the Paracetamol, but benzodiazepines? That hardly seems like a staple for a first aid kit -"
She cuts him off. "It's for you, you moron! I have Paracetamol tablets in my medicine cabinet, for Christ's sake. I don't need to take it in a syringe when I have a sodding headache." She realizes that she's shouting and tries to lower her voice. Her shout just morphs into a growl. "This bag," she says angrily, pointing at the bag at her feet, "isn't my first aid kit. It's my Sherlock Emergency Kit. There's everything from benzodiazepines to morphine to surgical tools to nicotine patches. It's for you." He blinks at her, unable to respond. She bows her head, shaking it sadly, fighting off tears. This is supposed to be my day off. "I'm... I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to say it like it's your fault. It's just -"
He interjects, "- that you believe that your great efforts go unnoticed. I apologize, Molly, if I neglected to thank you before."
"You've never thanked me."
He continues hesitantly. "Right. Again, I apologize. And you know that I don't often apologize, Molly." He looks to her for confirmation, and she nods. "There's a reason I come here, of all places. I do have other bolt holes, Molly; I assure you that this isn't the only place I have to go. I come here because I know that here, I'll find more than just shelter and sanctuary. You always take care of me, no matter how angry I make you. You always make sure that I am rested and fed properly. You're one of few that actually gives a damn about my actual well-being."
"I'm glad to know that I've helped." Molly abruptly halts his strange uncharacteristic confession. She sighs sadly, running her fingers through her hair. "OK, Sherlock. Stay, eat whatever you'd like, but please keep drinking water," she says as she rises from her seat. "And no more substances. That means no aspirin or narcotics. Understood?"
"Of course. Where are you going?"
"I'm knackered, and I need some rest. It's my day off, so I can do that." Sherlock looks away, refusing to meet her eyes. He wants me to stay. "You're completely capable of taking care of yourself. I'll be in my room if you happen to need me for any reason, though I'm sure you won't. I'll be up in a bit, if you think you'll still be here by then."
He nods in acknowledgement, giving her a strained smile. "All right Molly; sleep well."
She returns his smile before padding down the hall and shutting her bedroom door behind her.