She looks so peaceful lying in-between the crisp cotton hospital sheets, her heart beat wavering erratically here and there in front of his eyes. He watches as her chest rises and falls in an uneasy rhythm; these are the only two signs of life emanating from her otherwise deathly still form.
Sherlock bows his head in silence, slowly walking over to the desolate young woman. Without a word he sits down on a chair next to the bed and clasps his hands together, he had always mocked her for her over chatty ways and her stuttering jokes. Now he misses it immensely, the sound of silence encapsulates the room, smothering everything in its wake. He simply sits on the chair, lifting his head to stare helplessly out of the window across the room, highlighting the cold London streets, like a map of neurons in a central brain. In each street lights flicker off, leaving only the slightest trace of the inhabitants.
Still smirking Molly wanders into the room, the heart still beating in a steady manner in the middle of the room. Upon entering the room she is overwhelmed by the smell of tobacco and other unidentifiable scents which are unmistakably Sherlock. For a moment she is stilled by the amount of files here, each one in its own specific place. Even she didn't realise just how much information she held on the detective.
Wandering over aimlessly to the shelf labelled "interactions" she pauses; it seems that more information has been added here too. On it is the symbol of a bird, but why, to her knowledge Sherlock has never bothered talking about birds. She clasps her hands to her sides and clenches her fist in a desperate effort to remember the conversation, and is bitterly devastated when she cannot. Yet another piece of information has escaped her, she despondently places the file back on the shelf, where the edge promptly begins to disintegrate.
Back in the hospital it is night time, and all the corridor lights have been dulled, only the distant sound of nurses shuffling feet and vending machines remain, punctuated only by the blips of Molly's heart monitor. It is then that Sherlock Holmes speaks: one small sentence that will change the course of this moment in time forever,
"I'm sorry Molly Hooper, caring is not an advantage."
Slowly and sadly he turned to the door, his long coat sweeping behind him, a silent salty, sentimental tear pooled in the corner of his eye, briskly wiped away by his own hand, the door slammed behind him sealing the deathly silence in.
Somewhere in the Mind Morgue there is a creaking sound, an ominous noise of destruction as one of the beams supporting its very structure begins to give way, splintering at the top and producing a crack centralised in one place. Molly stares wide eyed at the destruction, and guesses that she is close to leaving this place, suddenly a dripping noise can be heard from inside one of the rooms, as a puddle of grey water slowly begins to form underneath Sherlock's heart, seeping out towards Molly and pooling around her feet.