So, I ended up starting this yesterday, when the world was ending. And then I was just too exhausted to do anything with it. So, I finished it today, and am posting it now, just as a final way of getting it out. There ARE Trigger warnings in here of self injury and suicide, but Please do NOT worry about me doing either of those. My problems are big, but they aren't worth that. Anyway, it's just the way my dark emotions revealed themselves yesterday.
I don't own anything
The Tip of the Blade:
It hadn't been this bad for a long time. However, Molly had endured one too many jibes from the world. One too many family deaths, one too many failed relationships, one too many hurtful comments on her appearance, one too many consulting detectives that would never love her as she loved him.
She hadn't picked up the blade since she was in college. Always done in secrecy, and always so careful as to hide the evidence of the slight hash marks across her fair skin. Back then, it was done as a way to relieve stress before her more difficult exams, or as a way to break the pain of not getting invited out with the other girls on a Friday night. Trivial to most people, but to her, it was the world. One or two nicks of her skin later, and she'd feel better, the tension no longer pressing to get out of her.
However, now, now was different. She sat on the floor of the loo in St. Bart's, trying not to wince after each harsh line that she drew across her already reddening and swollen flesh. It had started earlier that week, when everything that could possibly go wrong, did. The one wonderful outcome, or rather, the thing that started it all, was Sherlock Holmes' return from the dead. It had taken him three years, but he had finally done it. Finally brought down the organized crime wheel of a terrifying man, a man whom she had almost dated. However, with this new reveal of the truth, came all the other truths. How she had helped him. How she had broken the law to help him. How she had lied. On the reports, to the board, to the police, to the press. To John. Needless to say, her career was now in jeopardy, as was her once beautiful friendship with the army doctor. His words stung through the slashed on her skin as she recalled them.
"I can't believe I trusted you with so many secrets. So many nights I cried into your shoulder, and you never said anything! I can't believe you, Molly!"
She had expected him to be harshly hurt, and rightfully so. However, she had not expected the subject of their argument to stand aside, not coming to her aid at all. Sherlock was far too busy reacquainting himself with his favorite microscope to notice the tears that had started to fall down her cheeks.
She had wanted him to say it, wanted him to show, act, like he cared. She never did get so lucky in this life. It was two days later, when the hammer fell. The gavel came down, and she was dismissed. Dismissed from services, dismissed from Bart's, dismissed from life as she knew it.
So, she had cleaned her office out. Books and boxes of ridiculous items that she'd collected over the years, all piled into the back of a cab, and driven to her flat across the city. Molly stayed behind, filing the last of the paperwork on autopsies she had performed. The final one complete, she excused herself to the restroom, passing by a stoic and entirely focused Sherlock.
"Goodbye, Sherlock." She had muttered. Not at all a surprise, she received no more than a hum in response.
And now she sat, fingers lightly curled around the shining handle of the scalpel. Her arms held as many gashes as her thighs, yet the pain continued to press on her. It hurt, burned, ripping her from the inside out. She looked through teary brown eyes at the damage she had done to herself.
My God, I'm a mess.
She had contemplated this note for quite some time, off and on throughout her several past moments of weakness. However, it only made sense now, now that she would actually be carrying out the act. She thought of the words that she had scrawled onto the note, before leaving it beside his petri dishes in the lab.
It's not your fault. Not really. I just can't do it. I'm weak, far too weak to go anymore. I need you to tell John how sorry I am. He'll listen to you, it'll make sense if you explain why I couldn't tell him you were alive.
I need you to tell Mrs. Hudson that I'm sorry I didn't come round for tea more often, to check on her, to ask how she was.
And Greg. Tell him I didn't mean to get angry for doubting you for even a second. He was in a difficult place, and I didn't take that into consideration at the time.
Please, just tell them all I am so, so sorry.
Mostly, I'm sorry for you. I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough to tell you before how much I loved you. You were so very special to me, and I wasn't brave enough to let you know that. I'm sorry you had to be loved by someone so weak, so small. I'm sorry I couldn't love you enough, and I'm very sorry I couldn't love you with the knowledge that you would never love me back. I'm sorry I can't do more to help, and that you will never see me as someone who truly counts.
I loved, no, I love you. And I'm sorry.
She sighed out as she nodded her head, looking down at the scalpel. The sharp tip of it was pointed at her stomach, waiting to be pressed into her. With a final deep breath, she closed her eyes, and finally, exhaled.
A strong hand gripped around her wrist, causing her to look up with wide eyes. Her own doe's eyes met the fierce and shining blues of the man she loved. A look of pure panic, agitation, fear, was etched strongly into his ethereal features. She barely comprehended his harsh breathing, or the fact that his grip around her wrist was devastatingly tight. She felt the sharp blade fall from her hand, yet couldn't focus on the sound of it clattering to the floor. She was vaguely aware of John rushing into the loo, staring with wide and flustered eyes at her wounds. All was quiet, even when Sherlock hoisted her crumpled form up and into his arms, carrying her to A&E. His lips were moving, yet she couldn't make out what he was saying. It was only when the nurses took over, strapping her down to the gurney, that she heard him.
"You stupid, stupid woman. What have you done to my Molly?" His voice was low, charred and gravelly with the evidence of withheld tears. Her eyes tried focusing on him, but faded as she slipped into unconsciousness.
Hours. Maybe days. She wasn't sure how long she had been asleep. However, she did know that she felt like a truck had passed over her entire body, before backing up and doing so again. Her eyes blinked open slowly, and she looked to her side. He was standing by the window, staring out at the grey skies. John was by her bedside, his face buried in his hands, fingers filing through his sandy hair. As she moved, she felt the pain on her arms, sending her heart rate soaring. This, of course, alerted the men to her alertness. John immediately looked up, and raced to her.
"Oh, Molly. I am so sorry I got angry. I am so, so sorry." He spoke in a hushed and breathy voice. Molly smiled weakly as he pressed an almost brotherly kiss to her forehead.
"It hurts." She whispered. John stood up and walked to the door.
"I'll go get the nurse. I'll be right back, okay?" He said, before walking out of the room. Molly watched as the door slid closed, leaving her alone with the still silent man by the window.
"Sh...Sher..." She began to speak, but was abruptly cut off when he also started.
"How many times must I tell you of your importance to me before you believe me?" His voice sounded tired, almost ill. She looked at him curiously, unsure of what he meant.
"I've only just returned, Molly. I returned with the notion that things, life, would go back to how I once knew it. However, I did not include the changed dynamic between us." He turned, and she could see the torment behind those deep eyes. He hadn't slept for days, she could tell. He walked closer to her bed, still too far away for her to reach out to him.
"It is entirely my fault that you were not aware of how that dynamic has changed. I never told you, and I did not realize I had not expressed it enough that night three years ago when I told you that you counted." He sat in the chair beside her now, his hand reaching out and taking hers.
"This isn't you. You are strong, Molly Hooper. Much stronger than anyone gives you credit for, especially yourself. The Molly I know...the Molly I love, is brave. She is not weak, and she is certainly not small." Molly's eyes flooded with tears, and she silently let them spill over her cheeks as he spoke. Sherlock leaned forward then, and pressed his lips to the salty tears as they slid over her skin.
"Please. I just want her back. I want my Molly Hooper. I need to tell her she counts. I need to tell her how much I can love her." He whispered now, pressing light kisses over her face, his hand squeezing onto hers tightly. The nurse had entered moments later, followed by John, who watched as the consulting detective wiped his eyes and moved away, back to the window. The nurse administered more medication, and soon, Molly was drifting back to sleep. She muttered something, which had Sherlock rushing back to her side.
"What is it, Molly? What do you need?" He asked urgently, needing to gather the information before she passed out again. A soft smile, remnants of his lovely pathologist coming to the surface.
Aaaaand yea. That's what I've got. So...I hope you liked it. Leave me a note/review, okay?