If there is a god, they'll see to it that Sherlock Holmes follows Molly's directions word for word. They'll make sure that Sherlock forgets, deletes all of the information from his mind, and never speaks of it again.
Then again, "the universe is rarely so lazy."
Molly thinks it's a shame that their first real moment of physical intimacy (platonic as it may have been) was spoiled just hours later by that earth-shattering confrontation. She reasons that she could live on just that intimacy. She could have him, sans the romance and the sexual encounters, so long as she gets to lie in his arms like that every night. She could handle his antics and his erratic behaviour, she could handle his eating/sleeping habits (or the lack thereof), and she could most certainly handle him during both his highs (literally speaking) and his lows (metaphorically speaking).
What's worse is that he'll never remember that psychotic episode that he had before falling asleep in Molly's arms. He'll never remember falling asleep in Molly's arms, for that matter.
So basically, in his mind, none of that intimacy even happened in the first place. Lovely. Finally, after years of chasing him, I got to hold him like I wanted to, and he doesn't even remember.
Maybe that's for the best.
God, that could be my catchphrase. "Maybe that's for the best." Make do, Molly Hooper. You're too much of a coward to fight for yourself anyway.
Thankfully, Sherlock is still holed up in Molly's bedroom when she gets up for work the following day. She assumes he's asleep, given the amount of drugs in his system, plus the fact that not a single sound comes through that door. Molly is equally as thankful when she comes home to an empty flat – save for the presence of her cat, Toby, of course. Upon her return, Molly finds nothing extremely out of the ordinary to speak of – except maybe that her bed is made, her Sherlock Emergency Kit is put away, and she's out of milk.
When she changes out of her work clothes into pyjama shorts and a tee shirt, she removes the gauze pads taped to her arms to allow the wounds to breathe. She'll replace them later, but for now, she marvels at the sight of the just-closed cuts. Usually, the sight of the damage she inflicts is enough to sate the Monster. Oddly enough, looking at it now only makes her want to add to it. I did it twice yesterday, and once a few days earlier. When did this become such a frequent transgression? A fourth time wouldn't hurt. I mean – it would, but that's kind of the point though, isn't it?
Not the arms though – no, I'll need to wait a while before I can use those spots again. So, where then? Where was I before I started using the arms? Abdomen, I believe. Eh, probably not a great idea to do that during the summer – where I'm sure to sweat. I want to bleed, not get an infection, after all.
Upper thighs it is.
When Molly goes into the loo to begin her ritual, she remembers what Sherlock said to her last night: "Your loo is like a crime scene." She looks around for evidence that she may have left behind at some point. More like the rubbish bin is like a crime scene. Drama queen. Rolling her eyes, Molly disregards his statement. She brings out the cigar box and goes through her supplies, taking out the things she'll need momentarily. However, when she finally pulls out the little box that holds her weapon, Molly immediately notices that something is amiss. When she removes the lid, her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach, and she suddenly cannot breathe.
Inside of the box, a little gold-toned key sits where her pocket knife belongs. Underneath the key sits a small note card, folded in half, with Sherlock's characteristic scrawl written in thick black ink. The note reads:
Dr Hooper, I know that your pocket knife has much more meaning to it than meets the eye. I also know that it's been your weapon of choice since you first started this morbid coping mechanism of yours. Therefore, one may conclude that, devoid of your sacred pocket knife, you'll be unable to replicate your ritual as a result. I came up with a solution that I believe could be seamlessly executed, so long as it is handled properly. Your blade is safe. Should you want it back, which I know you will, you can find it at Baker Street. You'll need to have the key; I won't tell you what it's for (spoilers!), but you'll know exactly when to use it when the time comes. I have faith in you, Molly Hooper. I have faith in your fortitude and your willpower. That should mean something, seeing as how sometimes – most of the time – I don't even have faith in myself. No, but I have faith in you. Trust me on this one. I know I've given you no reason to. But what makes you so brilliant, Dr Hooper, is that I know that you'll find it in your heart to trust me. - SH"Ah, Molly – I was beginning to suspect you'd need some more coaxing to draw you here, but, as it turns out, your depravity was enough after all."
Molly had been nervous moments ago, as Mrs. Hudson led her up the steps to 221B, but now, she's just furious again.
"I came here to talk to you because – how dare you play games with me, Sherlock Holmes. How dare you butt your head into my personal business, invading my privacy and taking what belongs to me."
"Correction, dear Molly – you came here for your blade." She gives him a glare that could take down a king. "And rightfully so. I do apologize for having to breach your privacy; it was a necessary evil to execute my plan. And I think, Dr Hooper, that you will understand eventually, and that you'll agree to the arrangement I've worked out. After all, this isn't a game to me, Molly. It pains me just as well."
"How do you mean?"
He holds up a finger, gesturing for her to hush. "All in good time."
It's in this moment that Molly spots the small box-shaped object – which is about the size of a shoebox – perched atop the mantel. The object has a hinge (so the front must be the opening mechanism) and – jackpot! There's a keyhole underneath the latch that opens the door. The key.
"Oh, very good, Dr Hooper. You're catching on quickly." Sherlock watches as the cogs turn rapidly in Molly's head.
Wordlessly, she approaches the box, feeling elated in a very literal sense – as if her body were floating like a helium balloon. That feeling quickly dissipates as Molly realizes that her key doesn't fit in the lock.
"What the -"
As Sherlock ushers her out of the flat, he rattles off instructions to her. "Go home, mull it over for a bit. Let me know when you finally understand. Don't bother until you do. Ta."
When he shuts the door in her face, she finally realizes that she's supposed to be infuriated with him.
Several hours pass agonising over the subtext of Molly's encounter with Sherlock before it dawns on her to search her own flat. After quite a bit of looking, she finds what she's looking for under her bed. Apparently, Sherlock hid a duplicate safe (like the one on his mantel) in Molly's flat. The only apparent difference between the two objects is that the key that Sherlock gave her actually fits in the lock to this one. And what she finds inside makes her heart wrench.
It takes Molly a moment to identify each object inside the black plastic case that she finds inside the locked box. What is this? A – a medical kit of some sort? Molly is not very well-versed on drug culture or paraphernalia, but she knows enough to recognize that this is Sherlock's "kit." This is his go-to for all things self-destructive.
On the floor of her bedroom, Molly lays out each item, analysing them one by one. She finds a rubber-banded bundle of syringes, a refillable lighter, a very weathered crack pipe, cotton balls, rolling papers, razors, a thin belt, emergency cash, and tiny bags of assorted substances. There are over two dozen bags laid out for Molly to see, each one with a handwritten label denoting its contents. A majority of the substances are in pill form, while there are a few bags of powder or rocks. Some of the bags have more inside them than others; for example, the bag of powder marked "heroin" is full and worn from being filled time and time again, but the bags marked "LSD" and "MDMA" have only one to two tablets each.
She thinks she's starting to understand now – but it's all just information that needs to be pieced together.
Think, think! Why would he lock this in a safe under my bed? He could always just get more supplies. But why – what would he gain from this? Better yet, why would he deliberately undergo self-sabotage to impede his habits? It's not like he really wants to give them up. He likes them. He doesn't need them.
What motive could he possibly have to play such a convoluted, intricate game with me?
But none of this answers the initial dilemma: where the hell is my pocketknife? It's probably locked in the safe at Baker Street. He must have the key, too. He's the only one with access to my blade. And I'm the only one with access to his kit.
Oh. Molly's head is spinning. She quickly shoots a text to his mobile, saying, "I get it now."
His reply comes quickly. "But do you really? How do I know you're not just bluffing?"
She doesn't think before sending her reply. "Because I no longer bear any malice toward you, and for some twisted reason, I have the vague urge to thank you."
An hour passes by slowly, and she doesn't get a reply.
Instead, she gets a knock at the door.
For the record, I had to do quite a bit of research for this story – namely on drugs, chemical compounds, and drug paraphernalia. I wanted this to be as accurate as a work of fanfiction could possibly be.