As Molly was wheeled through domestic smelling corridors and expressionless walls she considered her earlier thoughts of death, what if she did… well…would anyone miss her? Of course she thought and tried to summon a smile, but she couldn't, the pain in her head was growing worse and she could not voice her opinion, the nurses said she had had a small relapse and that they were taking her to perform another MRI. Whenever she tried to speak, a hoarse whisper of nothing escaped her lips. She could easily formulate sentences, just not say them. Molly thought back to before, why did this Sherlock want to help her, what had she ever done for him?
Late in the morning Sherlock woke to the buzzing sound of his phone, it was sure to be either John or Lestrade he would've rather had Lestrade any day. His relationship with John wasn't that wonderful at the moment, they argued about what to do about Molly and had feuds about Sherlock's supposed feelings toward the petite pathologist. Ultimately Sherlock won; John seemed to shrug it off, but whenever Sherlock contacted him, he always had a message rejection the notion of solving a case with the detective. Sherlock picked up the phone and opened up the text; it was John:
To SH:
Sherlock, you might want to get to the hospital, Molls is having a relapse, and they seem to think that something else is wrong with her. Shall I call Mycroft?
Sherlock blinked, uncomprehending of the message he had just read, why was Molly so gravely ill again? Why wasn't she getting any better. Sherlock slumped in his chair sighing inwardly about his raging predicament, caring is not an advantage, but what about when caring is the only thing to do? Listlessly lifting the device to reply to his friend.
TO JW:
John, calling Mycroft will not be necessary, we have enough problems on our hands with Molly without that git getting involved, and I'll make my own way there. Make sure she's okay John, I'm counting on your expertise here, keep her safe.
When Molly came through the MRI scanner she hurriedly tried to sit up, eager to see her scan and to know what was wrong. After coming out of a deep coma, she had been advised to take it easy, but Molly Hooper had other ideas. There were no longer bandages around her brain and the scab was healing well, the doctors had diagnosed that she had lost a lot of blood and her injury would take months to heal sufficiently, but the amount of complications arising from her head wound were beginning to concern her a lot more than her original ailment. The doctors thought that Molly would be able to return to her room, they would be briefing her about their findings soon. And so Molly was wheeled back through the sterile hallways less reassured now than she ever had been. Sherlock Holmes watched from a distance, one silent, salty sentiment running down his cold, pale cheek.