Chapter 6: Crying

After the nightmare episode the night before, Molly could barely look at Sherlock. He must have reached the conclusion that Molly herself had, but desperately wished wasn't true: Molly Hooper was weak. When Sherlock got out of bed, Molly stayed, feeling the coolness of the air touching her skin where second ago Sherlock's arms had been keeping her warm. She couldn't possibly stay in the flat all day, except she had taken off work. What could she possibly do to get away from Sherlock? Then Molly had a thought.

She flew through her shower and getting dressed. She spent a little more time on her hair, just to make sure it actually was presentable. Then she headed out to the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for her with a cup of coffee. She took it from him and drank it as quickly as she could without burning her throat. Sherlock watched her with a bit of confusion.

"In a hurry? I thought you were staying in today."

She shook her head. "Going out."

Sherlock looked almost disappointed for a fraction of a second before wiping his face of any emotion. He stood and made his way to the couch, where he slumped down and affected an air of haughty relaxation. He whipped a pillow out from underneath his lanky frame to cover his face with. Molly was putting on her coat when his voice reached her from under a pillow.

"Don't be gone too long."

She looked back at him, but his posture hadn't changed, except that he had somehow thrown the pillow across the sitting room and then flung an arm across his face so she couldn't see his expression.

"Off you go."

Molly fled.

…

She arrived at Baker Street within an hour, having stopped to pick up some pastries for Mrs. Hudson. When she knocked on the front door, Mrs. Hudson appeared, looking disheveled and lost. When she saw that it was Molly at the door, the relief was plain on her face.

"Oh, Molly, thank goodness you're here. John has complete fallen apart. He won't listen to me. Maybe you can get through to him?"

"I…can try." Molly wasn't particularly looking forward to seeing John, considering the secret she was helping to keep.

Going up the stairs, she looked back to see Mrs. Hudson disappearing into her own flat. No help from there apparently. Pushing open the door to 221B, Molly tentatively leaned her head into the room. There were no signs of John. Or anything living for that matter. The flat was clean, exactly as it had been before Sherlock faked his death. Where was John?

"John?" she called. She didn't want to startle him. With his military reflexes, he might shoot her. She got no reply but heard a rustle from the bedroom down the hall. Her steps silent and careful, Molly crept close enough to peek through the small crack between the door and the frame.

She realized that this must be Sherlock's bedroom. It was mostly bare, with only a poster of the periodic table on the wall, but it was full of glass. Glass beakers, test tubes, pipettes, and flasks covered every surface except for the bed. The bed was large enough for two, but obviously not well used. The room was dark and full of shadows, and shrouded in death and despair.

In the middle of the bed, John sat, small and broken. His head was down, his eyes fixed on his hands which were turning a dark object over and over in indecision. His hands did not shake, but his shoulders did. Molly crept farther into the room. Upon closer inspection, the dark shape revealed itself to be a gun.

"John," she whispered in shock. She didn't get an answer but she didn't think that she would.

She climbed up onto the bed next to him. On her hands and knees, she crawled over to him. She didn't think touching him would be a good idea.

"John," she said again, more insistent. "He…Sherlock wouldn't want this."

At that, his head rose, just enough to look at her. The look in his eyes made Molly's breath catch and tears form in her eyes. His eyes, once friendly and kind, were like mirrors, flat and empty. Every detail of his face was a shadow of the grief that was roiling beneath the surface of his frail body, barely contained by soft skin and battle-born habits of pushing emotions aside, hiding what he was really feeling. When he looked at Molly, she was drawn in and consumed by his emotions. He said something, but his voice was so quiet and broken that she couldn't hear anything. She leaned closer.

"Sherlock…is gone." The pain was so evident in his voice, Molly marveled at how he had held himself together even this long.

Molly drew in her breath, but before she could say anything, John was raising the gun to his own head.

"NO!" The word was wrenched from her without her realizing it and her hand reached out without her consent.

She had been right about John's reflexes. As soon as she touched him, the gun was spun around, somehow pointed at her heart. Her breathing became shallow and quick. Her fear was making her brave though. She didn't remove her hand from his arm. She slid her hand down his arm to his wrist and then to his hand that was holding the gun.

"John," she whispered. She didn't try to move the gun away, she just held on to him. The shaking of his shoulders was getting more and more violent. All at once, the gun dropped to the bed and John gave in to his emotions.

As he fell apart, his arms reached out for Molly and she went to him, without thinking, without hesitation. His left arm wound carefully around her waist and his right arm went up around her shoulders, making it impossible for there to be any room between them. He clung to her and let his tears fall. The sobs that came out of him were animalistic and heart wrenching. Molly simply held him and let him cry, occasionally stroking his short hair, rubbing his back and whispering little nothing meant to give comfort, but that really only made Molly feel useful.

Molly stayed with John for the next five hours, as he exhausted himself. When she had convinced him to eat a bit of toast, he grew too tired to stand and swayed dangerously in the middle of the kitchen. Supporting his weight carefully, she led him back to Sherlock's bedroom. When she let go of him, he fell down onto the bed, grabbing Molly's waist as he went so that she was pulled down on top of him.

"John?"

"Stay here. Don't…don't want to sleep alone. Nightmares." His voice was muffled by a huge yawn, and Molly couldn't help but smile, until she remembered her own nightmares. She understood not wanting to sleep alone.

"Just for a little while then, alright?" He grunted in reply. "But I'm not sleeping on top of you. Let go."

He didn't, he just rolled to his side so that she was next to him, close enough to hear his soft breathing. Molly couldn't help but think of how she had slept just like this, but with Sherlock. Her boys, so different in character, but the same underneath it all, wanted her to be there. The thought made her smile as she watched John's face relax. Her smile melted into a frown when she looked closer, seeing that even in sleep he looked in pain and sorrowful. He also looked so young, too young to be able to stand the emotional turmoil that had been thrust upon him.

Molly sent up a prayer of thanks that she had arrived in time to stop him from ending up on her morgue table. She thought back to the way his eyes had looked when he first looked at her. A pang went through her. John was so expressive; it wasn't hard to see he was struggling. She didn't know how she would be able to leave him alone for fear of him doing something drastic. Maybe she would take the gun with her. While she contemplated all these things, one image stayed with her. John Watson's haunted eyes, staring at her as though from the bottom of a grave. Molly felt a shiver run down her back and held on to the sleeping form of the doctor even tighter. She had realized something about John that she was never meant to know: He was a broken man.

…

When Molly woke up, the daylight that had been streaming in through the window had disappeared. She was curled up against John, with his chest pressed to her back and his arms holding her close. Craning her neck, she strained to see the numbers on the clock. Seven o'clock. Closing her eyes, she was about to let herself drift back to sleep when she realized that she had been gone for almost twelve hours. She had told Sherlock that she would only be a few hours! Her eyes flew open. Carefully, she eased herself out from underneath John's arm and groped for her back where it had fallen off of the bed. She dug her phone out of it and checked for messages. Ten missed calls and forty-two text messages. She decided to read the texts first.

Where are you? I'm out of eyeballs, bring some home with you. SH

Molly, where are you? SH

Are you alright? SH

Hello? SH

If I don't hear from you in the next three hours, I will assume you have been kidnapped. SH

Are you hurt? SH

The texts continued on in an increasingly panicked fashion until the last one, which had been sent only ten minutes ago:

Molly Hooper, if you are alright, answer me. I'm preparing to start searching for you. SH

Molly felt her face pale. She quickly sent Sherlock a message. He couldn't leave the flat or everything would be ruined.

I'm fine. Stay in the flat.

She saw that he texted her back within seconds but she ignored it. She needed to get home anyway, he would see her soon. She leaned over John's still sleeping form, and placed a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him.

"John," she whispered. "John."

"Mmf?"

She smiled. "I have to go."

At that he started to wake up a bit more.

"What? Why?"

"I have to get home. I'll come back though, tomorrow."

"Oh." His eyes drifted back shut. "Okay. See you then."

Molly pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his short, blond hair and then climbed off the bed. She was almost to the door when she had a thought and tiptoed back to the bedroom. She slipped the gun into her coat pocket and left as quietly as possible.