Hey guys! Here's my next chapter, hopefully you like it!
Unfortunately I have midterms coming up so I don't know when the next chapter will be posted. Hopefully soon but I make no promises!
-Lemon
One week.
One week had passed since Sherlock had the pleasure of seeing his pathologist, Molly Hooper. If he hadn't had his homeless network keeping an eye on her, he would be worried. No, Sherlock Holmes did not worry, had he ever in his life worried? Human emotions were so wasteful and unforgiving he wished he could delete them all in the first place; it would after all give him more room in his hard drive. He knew Molly was safe and that's all that mattered.
One week.
He had sent numerous texts and even called her mobile many times but Molly never answered, instead it went almost straight to her voicemail to be, he could only imagined, ignored forever. One week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty eight hours.
If this were any other week he wouldn't have cared as much as he did, he knew she must be preoccupied with other things, work, Mary…a lover perhaps? No he knew that title was reserved for him and him alone. No this week he needed his pathologist, he needed his Molly.
This was the week he was giving up the drugs. He had hated the way the heroin had clouded his brain and made his memory fuzzy, he hated the way it took control of him. If Moriarty couldn't succeed in taking control of him then why should the drugs.
It had been four in the morning when he flushed his supply. He didn't even hesitate, this time he just unwrapped the bottles from their cloth cover and calmly drained them into the toilet before throwing the empty glass out the window and onto the curb. The last time he had tried to do this wasn't as easy as this time, he had already known what to expect so he didn't feel the need to repeat the past there was no time for hesitation and regret this time. This time was for real and this time sobriety was going to last.
He just forgot how hard it was going to be to achieve it. He had forgotten (or perhaps deleted) all of the withdrawal signs and symptoms. The breathing troubles, the insomnia, the constant vomiting, heavy sweating, shakes…everything. He thought that this time would be easier but he had forgotten how last time he had Mycroft, Lestrade and rehab…this time he had nothing. Not even Molly.
He knew that if he called Molly and told her the truth she would run straight to him and help him through all this but he didn't want her to know. He didn't want her to feel the pain that he only imagined she would. He had run the scenarios in his mind and knew that nothing good could come out of it so instead he shut his mouth and remained silent.
Sherlock got up from his spot in the corner slowly and made his way to the ensuite bathroom. He turned the bathtub taps on full blast and let the cold water run over his equally cold hands. He counted the seconds it took to fill the tub in Russian and once he reached three hundred he counted backwards in Italian but only reached one hundred and thirty hour before the bile raced back into his mouth causing him to violently dry heave into the toilet bowl.
Thirty four. This was the thirty fourth time this had happened this week, Sherlock Holmes never lost count. As soon as the tub was full Sherlock turned the taps stopping the water flow and half rolled half hopped into the tub despite still being fully clothed. The water was freezing at first and for a couple of minutes Sherlock couldn't feel anything but after awhile the cold water heated up and Sherlock could feel the withdrawal slowly slip away. He liked feeling this way, he liked feeling numb.
He stayed in the bath until he could feel his heart beat slow almost dangerously low and could no longer control his bodily shakes. He waited until the bath water had disappeared down the drain before he shed his wet clothes and wrapped himself up tightly in a large blue towel. He would have stayed like that forever if it had not been for the ringing sound of his mobile from the other room.
Slowly he made his way into his bedroom and reached for his mobile which rested on his dresser. A text from Molly.
Come over for dinner? –MH
With shaky fingers Sherlock text back a reply only a heart beat later.
Love to. –SH
It takes him twenty minutes to finally pull himself together and get dressed, his hands are still shaking and his pupils are still very dilated but he could easily pass that off from lack of sleep of lack of eating. Both of which he had been suffering from for the past few weeks. Thinking about it now Sherlock tried to remember the last time he had had something to eat or when he had slept for more than three hours, no memory came to mind.
He half-ran half-walked out the door and out onto the curb where he flagged a taxi, gave the cabbie Molly's address and settled into the back seat. The whole way there he thought about Molly. Molly Hooper, the woman who had successfully killed him and the woman who brought him back to life. He owed her a world of gratitude and was confident that this was the best way to repay her.
When Sherlock had first gotten to know Molly she was quiet and mousy, only very rarely speaking to him when she gathered the courage to say something. He himself knew the effect he had had with woman, particularly for Molly. He knew that she was infatuated with him and often fantasized about him, while staying at her flat after The Fall he had overheard her talking in her sleep about what he could only imagine was a rather graphic dream about him and something else with a TARDIS, whatever that was.
Sherlock was a man who didn't like to remain in someone's debt; Molly Hooper was no exception. Making her feel loved was the only way he knew to repay her back. He knew at the beginning that tricking Molly into sleeping with him was harsh but he couldn't stop himself, especially with the drugs running through his system. He had only meant to do it a few times but just like the heroin he was shooting up Molly Hooper began to wrap around his head, and dare he say his heart?
He did not love Molly but he would be lying if he said he felt nothing for the girl at all. She was after all his life raft but she was the final reason he gave up the drugs. Molly had been satisfied in her end of the bargain and the sooner Sherlock got out of this arrangement the sooner he could get on with his life. Caring is not an advantage, he told himself often throughout the day, sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. And Sherlock Holmes was never on the losing side.
Molly had been pacing back and forth for the better part of the hour, it had gotten so bad she was sure there would be burn marks in the hardwood tomorrow. She held the positive pregnancy test tightly in her hands gripping it tightly almost scared if she let go it would disappear. She half expected herself to wake up in the morning only to find that everything had been a dream, it wouldn't be the first time.
She had already been to the doctor and gotten the blood test to prove once and for all that she was pregnant but she had wanted to show Sherlock the pink stick. Sherlock liked physical proof so she figured she'd have better luck showing him this than a piece of paper with a bunch of words and results. The only thing that really mattered was the two of them and the small walnut sized baby growing inside her.
Peering down at her flat stomach Molly carefully rubbed small circles over her baby.
"It's okay, daddy will be here soon."
Daddy. She liked the ring of that. Mommy, she likes the ring of that better.
The knocking on the door came ten minutes later shortly after Molly placed the takeaway order from their typical Chinese place down a few blocks away. She opens the door and feels her stomach do somersaults and her heart flutter like a butterfly when she looked at him. His curls are slightly damp from the falling slow outside and in that moment Molly wants nothing more than to wrap her fingers in his strands and hold him close. Later, she tells herself, there will be time for all of that later.
Sherlock steps into the warm flat without an invitation and takes his usual spot on Molly's sofa, much to his dismay Toby jumps into his lap and begins rubbing up against his stomach begging to be pet.
Very slowly Molly shut the door and carefully strides across the room and sits next to the consulting detective.
"Sh..Sherlock," she begins to say, "I need to tell you something and-"
"Before you begin I myself must tell you something too." Sherlock says quickly before Molly can say anything else. He needs to get the upper hand in the situation just like how he practiced it.
Molly, clearly caught by surprise says nothing and nods her head. Sherlock looks down at her hands intertwined with one another and pretends not to see her ghostly white knuckles clutching the hem of her shirt. Taking a deep breath Sherlock continues his story.
"Molly while I have…enjoyed these last few weeks I feel like now would be an appropriate time to get back on with our lives and continue going about our day like we had before. I feel like we had our fun and now it's time to get back on with our lives, you with your pathology and me with my consulting work. While I know this may come as a surprise to you seeing as for the past few weeks we've been inseparable I must tell you now that I find myself married to my work and-"
"Wait, Sherlock what are you saying?"
Sherlock looked down at the white and brown tabby stirring in his lap and took a deep breath. "I'm saying that we've both had our fun now and now it's time to go back to reality and continue on with our lives."
For a moment the world stopped. She couldn't believe what she was hearing; Sherlock was breaking up with her?
"Are…are you breaking up with me?" she asked quietly.
"Breaking up would mean that we were once together," Sherlock said, his voice flat and cold. "We, Molly were never together. It's time to move with our lives."
"Separately?"
Sherlock bobs his head up and down and clasps his hands together excitedly. "Yes! You understand! I thought you would be-"
"I don't understand," Molly whispers quietly, "I thought we had something. I thought you loved me."
Sherlock almost jumped back at the word that escaped Molly's lips. Love, he flinched at the word like he was a sinner being drenched with holy water. He almost laughed at Molly's assumption but the look on her face stopped him.
The once rosy cheeks were now drained of all colour and appeared almost grayish against the light. Her eyes, once full of promise and hope were void and empty like looking at the night sky with no stars. Regret fills his body and suddenly he wishes he could take it all back, everything he had just said then he wishes he could take it back. He wishes that for once in his life he could shut his mouth and never say anything ever again.
If you could hear a heart break, Molly was sure that she could hear the sound of hers echoing throughout all of London. His words felt like a thousand tiny daggers were slowly being stabbed into Molly's heart and twisting around on her insides making her body catch on fire. His words burned their way into her soul and slowly fill her body up with poison. Molly placed her hands over her stomach unconsciously as if to protect their baby from his mean words, but it was too late; the harm was already done and irreversible. They were already in her system running through every ounce of her love for Sherlock and slowly destroying what she had once held so sacred.
"I'm pregnant," she whispers without meeting his eye, she finds herself at this minute to look anywhere but him, it hurts too much.
He doesn't say anything, instead Sherlock allows the words that have just spilled out of Molly's mouth to sink in. He waits to feel a reaction, he waits to feel anything; anger, depression, remorse? But instead he feels nothing, he feels numb.
"Say something, please." Molly begs.
Straightening his back Sherlock practically pushes Toby out of his lap and tightens his wool coat tighter around the waist suddenly feeling cold.
"I suppose congratulations are in order,"
"I'm pregnant, Sherlock." She repeated again, only this time looking into his eyes. She slowly fished out the pregnancy test from her pocket, hesitating only for a second before handing it over to him. "It's yours, not that you care but I have your baby inside me."
She waits for him to say something, anything. But instead of words she is treated to silence. She wants to tell him more, wants to tell him her plan for their future but words fail her at this moment. Everything at this moment fails her.
"I can do this alone," Molly says, "if I have to, I will raise this baby alone. I don't want to, I want to do this with you but I understand if-"
She can't finish the sentence. She feels the tears rose up in her throat and is scared if she continues she'll either choke or drown.
"Just let me know, okay?" she continues. "I want you here with me, with us."
He leaves before the takeaway gets there, he leaves before she can say anything else, he leaves before she can cry anymore, he leaves. He just leaves.
The takeaway comes shortly after he leaves, she pays the man and takes it in her flat only to throw it away in the bin suddenly losing her appetite. Her legs shake and it's only a minute before she collapses onto the ground; tears drown her eyes and sobs break out in her throat. She clutches the broken pieces of the pregnancy test in her hands tightly, she doesn't even remember Sherlock handing it back to her.
She wants to run after him but she's never stopped him before from walking out on her, why should she start now?