Molly was still alive, just. Sherlock shook himself as he looked at her fragile body lying on the small bed in the intensive care unit, he was only allowed to watch as they manhandled her and hooked more machines up to control her vitals. No one could understand what had caused the arrest, most of the nurses believed that it was simply her body giving up, but it couldn't be: Molly Hooper wasn't the type for simply giving up.
She was disorientated, her Mind Morgue was seemingly still intact and her functions seemed to be fully cooperating, she wasn't fully aware of what happened but Molly was beginning to get the feeling that she wasn't as dead as she first believed. She was still going on the assumption that she no longer had control of her own body, and that she could in no way influence those around her, but the pain she had felt in her chest while her Morgue collapsed around her was entirely too real to be a simple projection of her mind. Concentrating hard she began to rearrange the many files and documents which had been dislodged from their positions. Sighing, she slowly tried to recount every piece of information she knew about Sherlock Holmes, for that room seemed as good as any to begin with.
He wanted to reach out and touch her, to convince himself that she still existed, that this miracle survival rate could continue. That if she could just hold out a bit longer he could save her. He knew he could solve her case; find the evil criminal who had dared to harm her, his pathologist. But at this moment, he hadn't the strength to continue, as each beat of her weak heart resounded through the hallway, a beat of his own thudding rhythm keeper echoed in time with it. He couldn't help it, these, feelings were corrupting him. Sociopaths didn't feel, couldn't feel. So why? Why was she affecting his brain, giving him a heart that he didn't want, didn't need?
Molly Hooper knew a lot about Sherlock Holmes, she was unaware just how much information she had gathered over the years, yes there was his appearance and his interactions but there seemed to be a file for everything; his laugh, his smile, even that sarcastic smirk she had once detested. Slowly and precisely she began to sort them into order, least to most important. This was almost the only room to have any kind of order, and she wanted to prolong the peace that it brought her before moving on to any of the more unorganised cluttered rooms. She smiled; trust Sherlock Holmes to be her inadvertent saviour.
He looked at the bed one more time before turning away. The pale sheen of her skin is sickly and pallid, her chest rises and falls in miniscule amounts, Sherlock cannot find even the energy within himself to deduce her. It is crippling, this sentiment he feels towards the young woman, and she is cluttering up his Mind Palace, unravelling her own investigation. Suddenly he knows what he must do. Sorting through his own Palace he comes to the pillar blocked door, locking its creaking portal lock, a sign flashes red in his mind, DELETE?
After all, sentiment is a weakness found on the loosing side…