The blood dripped down her arm, the jagged blade clawing and dragging its way through her skin, leaving havoc in its wake. The blood slipped its way down her arm, combining with the other trails of blood that'd been made by other self-inflicted wounds.
She cried out, tears streaming down her face as she sobbed. “I'm sorry,” she whispered over and over, to no one in specific. No one could hear, no one would listen and no one would care. Her pain was too great, her sins were too many, she needed to be punished. But nothing could describe the numbing pain that infested her heart: so she resulted to bleeding just to feel alive.
And so, there alone, she lay for hours on her bathroom floor, covered in her own blood.
He exhaled shakily, leaning back in his bed, beginning to lose his sanity. Things around him began to become surreal, as his eyes drooped close. Everyone assumed that things were never hard for him, that because he was so stoic that nothing mattered, that anyone could say anything, call him anything they wanted, and that it would never hurt him. It was never true. Why would it be?
He breathed heavily as his mind began to wander into ridiculous scenarios and fantastical happenstances. He smirked. It was the only way he could feel anything, he'd killed everything else inside of him. But then again, he was only human, no matter how much he wanted to deny it.
He whispered an apology to his friend, who was absent, knowing that he could never hear, and slipped away into his own mind.
Molly arrived at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital in the morning—and what a fine morning it was, the sun was out for a bit, shining through the clouds, persisting its warmth through the crisp breeze. Yet, it was so contrary to how she felt inside her heart. The stark contrast made her feel lightly nauseated, but she put on her usual smile, and hid her true self as she entered the lab.
Molly jumped when she heard Sherlock's voice; he was using the computer in her lab. “Oh! Uh, h—hello. How did you...um...nevermind,” she chuckled. She learned never to question Sherlock Holmes and his curious methods. “You're here early!”
“I've been here all night,” he answered, typing away.
“Oh, big case?” she asked. She knew that she was most likely annoying him, but she would give anything to hear his voice.
“Hmm...” was his response.
She nodded, and placed her bags and jacket at her desk. “Well, if you need anything, I'll be over here.” He didn't respond, but pulled out his phone to text, whom she assumed was John. She sat down at her desk and gathered the papers for the day sorting everything out, it was going to be another long day. She was tired of being tired, but it was always refreshing when Sherlock came to visit the lab, even if they didn't talk very often—rather, at all.
Molly continued filling out paper work, constantly wincing at her battered arm. The pressure she was putting on it was excruciating, but she tried not to let on any sign of pain, for fear the Sherlock would notice—he always noticed everything. She looked over at him for a moment, suddenly cast into a day dream of what he was like when he went home, what it would be like to join him, wondering if she ever had a chance with him. She let her mind wander for a bit, when it was suddenly interrupted by John coming through the door. Her dreams shattered, once more, remembering that Sherlock didn't even know she existed—he always noticed everything, except for her.
“Ah, John, come take a look at this,” Sherlock insisted, moving out from behind the microscope.
John peered through the lenses. “Some kind of pollen?” he guessed.
“Mmm, quite right. Not just any pollen...” Sherlock continued on his little spiel.
Molly chuckled to herself as he rambled on. She loved it when he did that, he was always so informative, so bright—unlike herself. She shied back to her work, trying to not eavesdrop on what they were on about—it wasn't any of her business anyway, and it wasn't like she would understand it.
“Molly!” Sherlock called.