A/N: A shorter chapter, before a longer chapter, before delving into the final episode.
Take a Breath
"…you know, sometimes... I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human."
-Sherlock, "The Lying Detective"
Molly is preparing to face a monster of her own, after being gone so long (nearly twenty hours, between her shift at Bart's and Sherlock's grand fiasco). She feels dead on her feet, and her over-tired hands fumble with her keys, mail tucked under her arm, as she stands in the doorway – but the samples of Sherlock's bloodwork have run through, and she's got a file with the results from his medical, and after a hot shower and bite to eat, she will sleep as long as she possibly can before worry wakes her up and she decides what Sherlock will need to return to health. She has the day off tomorrow, and it is much needed, and much deserved.
She can hear Toby meowing loudly and pitifully through the door, and she sighs heavily. "Just a mo', Toby. I'm here. I know…I'm here." Molly finally manages to work the lock open – must be her exhaustion giving her difficulties – when a voice behind her startles her.
"Molly! Molly 'Ooper! I think you dropped this." Her neighbor's granddaughter, Trish, holds out an electric bill and piece of junk mail. Mr. Girard, who lives a few doors down, had a stroke a few weeks ago, and Molly had met Trish as she was moving a few things in to stay with her 'grandpapa'. She seems a nice enough woman, around Molly's age, with a thick French accent offset by careful, precise pronunciation of her words, and hazel eyes and curly brown hair. Molly hasn't had a chance to get to know her, much, but she's seen her a few times in passing, and the woman seemed very kind and friendly.
"Oh!" Molly exclaims, keeping the door cracked just a bit, to prevent Toby from coming out. He sniffs her shoe and meows all the more loudly. "Thanks, Trish. I'm so tired…must not've noticed I dropped it. The bill is important. Thank you."
"Oh, it is no problem, yes?" Trish looks down at Toby's nose peeking round the corner of the door. "Is this your cat?"
Molly smiles. "Yeah. Toby. Sorry for the noise, I've been gone a bit, and he gets tetchy without attention." Her eyes shift for moment, and she mumbles – "Like someone else I know."
Trish laughs lightly, a slightly confused look playing on her face. "And who is that?"
Molly's eyes widen, and she rushes to explain. "Oh, no – no, not you. Sorry. I meant – a friend. He's…well, I suppose I can't blame him, really. He…well, we…not that there's a we…" Molly takes a deep breath before smiling at the woman beside her, who is looking at her expectantly. "We've just lost a dear friend, a month ago. It's…a long story. And it's been a long month."
"Oh, I am so sorry for your loss," Trish says, touching her shoulder lightly and giving her a sympathetic look. "And your male friend…remember, the men deal with grief differently than women. They can be…emotionally immature, no?"
Molly snorts and nods. "Um…yeah. This one certainly can." She sighs. "But he is doing the best he can."
"Well," Trish says, giving Molly a small smile, "I must go. Grandpapa needs to work on his physical therapy, but you know how he resists it. I hope you rest. And do not work yourself so hard, yes?"
"All right," Molly nods, and stifles a yawn. "Sorry. Thank you, Trish."
"Oh, it is my pleasure," Trish waves her off as she walks away.
It is not often that Sherlock Holmes is dumbfounded, but when Faith Smith appears in the morgue doors, and she is – not Faith Smith – not the woman who came to him, and gave him a note, and carried a gun in her bag, and not the woman he ate chips with – he cannot seem to form an intelligible sentence.
It's not the drugs, though they certainly aren't helping.
His face falls, and so does his act - because he knows that it will not be as easy as he'd planned – Faith will not simply confront her father into confessing, but – he knew, of course, that that was a long shot, a hopeful contingency, and now – now is the difficult bit.
He can contemplate exactly what happened with the faux Faith Smith after he's saved John, because although the imposter is a puzzle that shocks him to his core (his mind is his most reliable, trustworthy part of him – and it has failed him, startlingly so) – his primary mission is still to save John Watson. He must be admitted to this hospital.
So he 'attacks' Culverton Smith with a stolen scalpel, and, as expected, John stops him from doing so, landing several well-placed punches.
He does not have to fake it, much – going down. Molly was right. He is dying. Slowly. And his body does not have patience for him, any longer.
Apparently, neither does John Watson.
What Sherlock did not fully anticipate is that John Watson keeps going.
It doesn't surprise him, not really.
But it hurts.
He supposes he deserves it.
"He's entitled," he spits, tired, as hospital personnel pull John off of him. "Let him do what he wants. I killed his wife."
John looks at him, face hard. "Yes. He did."
And that is the final blow - the one that hurts the most.
Molly flicks on the telly after dropping the contents of her arms on the countertop, but it is all speculation on Culverton Smith and Sherlock Holmes, and she turns it off just as quickly, not caring to waste precious time flicking through channels just to find something mind-numbing anyway. Instead, she places her iPod in its speaker before setting about making herself some tea and treating herself to some biscuits.
She breathes in the steam from her tea, closing her eyes and slouching into the chair at her table. She flips through her mail, sorting it into 'pay/respond', 'file', 'shred', and 'recycle' piles. It is good to have something easy to do while she decompresses.
She leaves everything on the table and places her cup in the sink shortly after finishing her snack, and heads toward the bathroom. Steam quickly fills the room, and she spends an excessive amount of time just standing there under the showerhead. She focuses on the sound of the water hitting the tiles and tub, and on the feeling of it coursing down her hair and back, and the taste of it as she licks her lips. She urges her mind to let go.
You've done what you can.
It's up to Sherlock, now.
And John.
And Culverton Smith.
And…no.
Let it go.
There is something to be said for the strength it takes to wait on the sidelines, behind the scenes. It is different than the kind required in the thick of the action, but it is more patient, and requires a lot more self-control.
If there are a few tears mixed into the water coursing down the drain, it is nothing new for Molly Hooper.
Sherlock wakes, and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the subdued fluorescent lights of his hospital bed. It also takes a few moments for his thoughts to catch up to the pain radiating throughout his body.
He gingerly takes inventory of his injuries –punctures and lesions from injections and general lack of hygiene, these past few weeks, which have been cleaned and treated by the nurses, here. Muscles spasming and cramping as he goes through withdrawal – but he checks his IV drip, and finds, indeed, that his connection has come through, and it is nothing more than a saline solution. Explains the intensity of the pain. He licks his lip, and is not surprised to taste dried blood. He blinks and winces, noting tender, irritated inflammation of his eye, and hisses as he takes a deeper breath. John's given him a black eye and bruised his nose and his ribs, for sure, but thankfully – just bruised.
He flexes his hands and notes with distaste that they are still trembling, and - and so is his lip. Sherlock shakes his head slightly to try and clear away the last memory he has burned into his brain, but the action only makes him feel dizzy.
Yes. He did.
Not Faith. Faith Not Faith. A note. Suicidal. Malfunction.
Something cold and overwhelming rises up from his stomach, and he turns his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut.
But then he opens them, and sees that John has brought him his old cane. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips, and he thinks that all hope – all hope is not lost.
Molly lays awake, sun-darkening shades drawn, staring at the ceiling above her.
She can't sleep.
She is exhausted, but she can't sleep.
She turns fitfully and stares at her closet.
She shouldn't. She hasn't, since before Tom.
In fact, she's only done it twice, and it was only during the period of time after Sherlock 'died', and before she met Tom.
She waits a moment, before flinging her comforter off and stalking over to the closet. She flings it open, and digs around far back and to the left, before her hand closes around what she is looking for.
She pulls out Sherlock's robe, an old navy one that he'd left here, for use during his bolt-hole stays – though he hasn't visited in at least three months - and bunches it in a pile against her chest.
Molly hauls it back to her bed, the tie trailing on the ground behind her, and climbs back in. She pulls it close to her chest and breathes in the fabric. She's washed it a few times, but it still smells like Sherlock.
As her eyes grow drowsier, she forgives herself, this moment of weakness.
It's his fault she can't sleep, after all.
When Culverton comes in, Sherlock is ready. He is ready to converse Culverton into a corner, and the man is free and careless with his confessions, now that he believes himself to be across the finish line.
But he's more of a monster than Sherlock ever imagined.
When Smith orders him to say the words the first time, he says it flippantly, bored – the words are part of his act, words eaten up and swallowed down in the recorder that Culverton missed, right there in John's cane, leaning up against the empty visitor's chair.
I don't want to die.
When he's made to say it a second time, he's forced to think about it.
I don't want to die.
He is prepared to die, for John – prepared to die to make amends for breaking his vow, because it should have been him dead in the first place, and it is a price he is willing to pay, but – he doesn't want to.
He is willing, but he doesn't want to.
By the third time, the automatic responses of his nervous system have flooded his body - already pushed to its limits – I'm stressed, you're dying, Sherlock - with stress hormones that make his voice crack and his eyes prick with tears.
He trembles, and he doesn't want to die.
He thinks of John, and Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson. John may come to his funeral, if he's lucky, (if he's unlucky, or wrong, and John is not already on his way to catch Smith in the act – and it's a small seed, but he doubts himself, now, after being wrong about Faith) – but then what, what next - for the best friend he'd ever had, in this world? And it is a sharp jolt to his chest, as he realizes that Rosie will never even know he existed, unless Mrs. Hudson or Molly -
An image of Molly, waiting in a cake shop – hair swept back, checking her phone expectantly, colorful candles stuck in the cake to annoy him - waiting to celebrate his birthday, with him, with him and John and Rosie – and Molly, face drawn and sad, picking apart an impartial cane alone to convict a dangerous killer - causes his limbs to jerk involuntarily.
He doesn't want to die.
So he's not going to.
Molly wakes with a start, and looks around the room, half expecting someone to be there with her.
It takes a moment for her heart to calm down, and she breathes deeply, listening intently as she focuses on the ceiling. She props herself up on her elbow and checks the time on her phone – 10:37 p.m.
She sighs, and flops back into her pillows, rubbing the sleep from her face. Despite it all, she'd gotten a fairly decent nap in.
Molly lays there for a few moments, debating whether or not to try and fall back asleep, but decides against it when Toby comes padding into the room and jumps onto the bed. She rolls onto her side as he sits beside her, and strokes his fur lovingly.
After a few moments, she decides she feels refreshed enough to try sifting through the data that is Sherlock's medical exam and come up with a plan that, if he actually follows, should allow him to go back close to where he was, physically.
She opts against tea or coffee for something crisp and more refreshing, and pours herself a glass of juice. She notices Toby's empty bowl and refills it before settling down at the table. She shoves all of her sorted mail from earlier to the side, and carefully lays out her notes from the ambulance and the results from Sherlock's blood work.
An hour later, she's got a list –clonidine to help with the physical symptoms of withdrawal (she will have to ask Mycroft for this, but is confident he will provide it – or rather, confident she can get him to provide it), vitamins to replenish what he's lost the past few weeks, groceries – she does not bother with anti-depressants, knowing he will not take them - and the rest, she does not add to the list, because they are not tangible items, and to add 'to-do's to a list for Sherlock is the surest way to guarantee he will not do them.
Exercise.
Maintenance of regular hygiene.
A sense of purpose.
Friends.
A support system.
She sighs, rubbing her eyes, tired from the strain. While her nap was refreshing, she has a lot of catching up to do, sleep-wise – and a nap every day for the next week sounds like a good plan, to her.
She stretches, about to watch some mindless television to relax before heading back to bed, when the screen of her phone lights up beside her.
There are several texts in rapid succession, and she smiles.
I hope you ordered a cake big enough for four. –SH
Or three. Does Rosamund eat cake yet? -SH
No matter. I can eat her piece. -SH
Success, on both accounts. –SH
Thank you. –SH
Settled comfortably into the passenger seat of Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin, this time – a satisfied smile tugs at the corners of Sherlock's mouth as Molly's reply flashes onto the screen, the glow illuminating his face.
You are welcome. Don't ever ask me to do that again. –xMH
Congratulations. -xMH
A/N: As always, thank you, thank you for your favorites, follows, and reviews. It makes me so happy to see little notifications in my inbox. Like, Mycroft eating cake happy. Like, Mrs. Hudson's car happy. Like, Sherlock's hair-ruffle-kiss to Molly happy. (Okay…maybe not quite that happy.) Still, you get the idea. Thank you, again!