All The Things We Thought We Knew

This will be a multi-chapter fic, because the last episode made me cry my heart out, and I am indignant at the lack of Molly Hooper.

Bleeding Love

"I need the one person - who, unlike me - learned to see through your bullshit a long time ago."

"Who's that, then? I'm sure I would have noticed."

"The last person you'd think of. I want you to be examined by Molly Hooper."

"Mmm, you're really not going to like this."

-John and Sherlock "The Lying Detective"

CLANG.

Molly sighs, staring at the sterilized enterotome she has just dropped, which would now, of course, need to be sterilized again.

She breathes in and out evenly for a moment, fingers twitching slightly from exhaustion and stress, just staring at the cursed thing.

It's been weeks since Mary died, since her funeral, and since John and Sherlock have spoken to each other.

She's been trying to help. She's done what she can for Sherlock, but he has retreated into himself with resigned remorse and solemn quietness. He is polite and distant and struggling, but is going through all of the motions – solving cases, eating occasionally, grooming - well enough. And, the last time she saw him – a week ago - at least – he was clean, which she is immensely glad for. All she can do for him now, it seems – is wait. Keep checking up on him, and wait.

John, on the other hand – he is falling.

She knows that losing a loved one is one of the most difficult, painful things to experience in life, and it changes a person. She has experienced it twice before – her mother, at age twelve, and her father – at age twenty-seven. And now, Mary.

But each change John Watson has made to his life has left vibrant red flags waving in their wake. He's switched his hours at work. He's not eating, not regularly. He's not sleeping much, if at all. He stares off into space for long stretches of time, and sometimes – she's caught him mumbling to Mary. She's suggested he try therapy, because it helped her with her parents' deaths. He'd mumbled something to appease her, and she hasn't brought it up again.

Most alarming of all, however, is the fact that he is pushing his old life away – including his daughter, apparently. He accepts when Mrs. Hudson or Molly visit, but only for a few moments, before making excuses and allowing them to see themselves out. He's even gotten a new babysitter for Rosie – which, really, Molly expected him to do – she and Mrs. Hudson can't watch her every time John needs a sitter, of course – but, he's ceased asking the two of them to watch Rosie at all, now. And the few times she's been round during the week, Rosie was not there – he picks her up for the weekends, and then takes her back to whoever knows where for the week.

John Watson has refused Molly's help more and more frequently, and the only other person she knows who could help him, is currently on John Watson's blacklist.

Molly squeezes her eyes shut against the memories of his drawn face and bends down to pick the tool off of the ground, walking slowly to put it back into the autoclave. She will now have to wait an extra thirty minutes for it to cycle through before leaving work for the day. She closes the doors and sets the timer, rubbing her forehead and willing her fingers to draw out the stress from the past month.

When she next opens her eyes, the machine has finished its cycle, and – more carefully this time, she places it with the other instruments before closing and locking the drawer.

She stretches her neck slowly to the right and left as she washes up. After she dries her hands, she retrieves her phone from its spot on the counter, and – as she makes her way to her locker – checks for any missed calls or messages.

Not that she expects any, these days.

A consequence of being drawn into the circle of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And now that Mary is gone and both Sherlock and John have removed themselves from said circle, she finds it very lonely indeed.

Surprisingly, there are two texts, from Sherlock.

Need your help.-SH

Baker Street. -SH

Molly frowns, and subconsciously quickens her steps. While Sherlock's demands for her assistance have been frequent in the past, this is the first since Mary's death. And he has never phrased it quite like that – he always 'requires her assistance', or some other such nonsense.

If he says that he needs her help so plainly, it is something far more serious than an experiment on decapitated extremities or a desire for her to make a cup of tea and some biscuits.

And, because it is the first time he has asked her, since Mary – though she hasn't slept more than eight hours in the past three days herself – she willingly goes, without complaint.

I'll be there in 10. –xMH

Molly lets herself into 221 Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson apparently not home, and turns to head up the stairs to Sherlock's door. She knocks as she enters, door unlocked.

"Sher-"

The smell hits her, first.

It is the scent of stale sweat and unwashed body and the peculiar pungency of a cocktail of drugs.

She freezes, exhaling sharply. Her eyes dart around the flat, and as thought upon thought crashes into her, she is overwhelmed - drowning in a sea that is equal parts white-hot anger and cold, exhausted defeat.

"Molly," he greets from the couch, papers and mess and who-knows-what strewn about him. His voice is commanding, but there is a tremor, underneath – a mask of false bravado.

She slams the door behind her, anger and adrenaline clearing fatigue from her mind. She clenches her hands into trembling fists and her back is ramrod-straight.

"At least it's the door, this time." Sherlock's lips twitch and he gives her a surprisingly sober, serious look and sits forward, as though waiting patiently for her to begin an angry diatribe.

She works her jaw and stares him down in silence.

After a moment, he blinks twice, and his brows knit together as he takes her in. "You're tired, Molly."

The words coming from his mouth sound foreign and strange, because he almost sounds concerned.

"I can explain." His eyes are serious and expectant, and his face, though covered with a slight sheen, is confident. "It's…not for a case." He pauses, tilting his head to the side. "Well, not the usual sort."

She blinks rapidly, mouth twisted downward.

He swallows and adjusts the dirty button up beneath his dressing robe. He looks up and raises his eyebrows, corner of his mouth twitching downward. "Laptop, please." He gestures to his laptop, which is currently sitting, closed, on John's chair, no more than two meters away.

She'd like to tell him to just stop – to shut up – to bugger off – to think of Rosie – to think of John – to think to think to think - but though her jaw is moving, she can't seem to push any words from the lump in her throat.

So instead, she turns on her heel –

Sherlock's head jolts up – "Molly" –

and she jerks the door open with just a little too much force –

He scrambles to stand, and lunges for the laptop – "Wait" –

She slams the door behind her, but it bounces.

He frantically opens the laptop, punches in his password, and clicks on the minimized screen, turning the volume all the way up and pressing play.

Molly is halfway down the stairs when Mary's voice stops her.

"Hello, Sherlock. If you're watching this, I'm probably dead-"

Molly freezes, and for a moment, she cannot hear, for all the blood rushing in her ears.

"- save John Watson-"

She turns and grips the rail with her trembling hand until her knuckles turn white, chin tucked to chest as Mary's words bounce down the narrow stairwell and around and around in her head.

"-pick a fight with a burglar-"

Her heart fights in her chest, trying to escape her ribcage.

"Because the only way to save John Watson-"

Molly's chin trembles.

Don't say it don't say it don't say it.

"-is to make him save you."

She squeezes her eyes shut against the sudden prick of tears.

"Go to hell, Sherlock."

She swallows.

There is silence, and the video is done.

And, just like that – her burning anger leaves, carried away on the echoes of Mary Watson's voice.

It leaves her thirsty and dry, a shriveled thing.

Molly looks up at Sherlock, eyes wide – willing her unshed tears to evaporate instead of fall.

She shifts on the stairs, moving slowly up one – and then taking the rest all at once.

She stands before Sherlock and meets his gaze – his distress quickly giving way to relief – not triumph, never triumph, with her – and then Molly takes the laptop out of his hands.

Doing her best to ignore her surroundings, for the moment, Molly finds a (relatively) clean spot on the floor and sits, cross-legged, and places the laptop on the coffee table.

Sherlock closes the door behind him, uncertain.

She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a fortifying breath, and opens them again.

Molly watches Mary's message twice more, before turning to face Sherlock, who has settled himself on the edge of the couch.

"It's for John," he says, and the rawness of his voice makes her heart ache, though she tries not to let it show on her face. "I – have a plan."

Not wanting to look up at him any longer, she picks herself up off the floor, shutting the laptop as she does so. She sits in Sherlock's chair, back straight, and forces herself to lift her chin as she stares fiercely at a spot behind him on the wall.

"Tell me."

And he does.

For once, Sherlock Holmes is the one left waiting on Molly Hooper.

He explains his plan – a regularly scheduled dose of carefully crafted homemade drugs, to keep up the appearance of addiction too far gone (she narrows her eyes at the phrase 'appearance of addiction') - culminating in Mrs. Hudson forcing him at gunpoint into her car (Mrs. Hudson has a car?) and driving to John Watson's new therapist. Mrs. Hudson will convince John to see Sherlock again, if only as a doctor – and John Watson, not trusting Sherlock's appearance or his own observations (dulled by grief and sleeplessness), will require a second opinion. This, Sherlock explains, is where he will need Molly. He stands, and pulls a card out of his dressing gown pocket, reaching her in two strides.

"I will need you to bring a fully stocked ambulance to this address. Time and date are on the back, along with…" he closes his eyes and scowls – "a number you can call if you have trouble with the ambulance. If you say it is for me, I can guarantee that you will have no trouble."

He holds the card out for her, but she makes no move to take it. His hand trembles, and he swallows uncertainly.

"Go on," she says evenly, eyes fixed at the same spot on the wall.

He leaves the card on the armrest and returns to the couch, rubbing one hand over his face, before collapsing backward into the couch. He presses both palms into his eyes and groans, staying that way for a moment, before leaning forward suddenly, elbows propped on his knees and face propped in his unsteady hands.

"And we will go to catch a serial killer."

He explains the rest of his plan, from recorders in his coat to John coming to rescue him at the last possible second, if being confronted by his daughter does not nudge Culverton into confessing – which hinges, Molly thinks, an awful lot on his drug-addled predictions on how Culverton will react, and how John will react, and on Sherlock's ability to act like he's on the high of his life when really, he's just buzzed, and on a whole host of other things that Molly places very little trust in.

Sherlock finishes his explanation, but his voice has moved from confident and matter-of-fact to a strange blend of pleading and mocking. "And then John will have saved me from both Culverton and myself, and he will forgive me, and we'll have saved John, and you'll all treat me like an infant until I'm satisfactorily clean again, and we will continue solving cases and raising Rosie and waiting on Moriarty to make his move-"

"-and we'll all live happily ever after," Molly finishes, a short, bitter laugh escaping.

It is a tiny thing, but she sees Sherlock's brows tense, just a bit, and his lips part hesitantly.

She is throwing him off, and she knows it, and it is a paltry salve on her wounded, weary heart.

Still, though she hates it – she hates it – she knows.

Molly knows that Mary is right. She could not explain it in words, before, but Mary has summarized so succinctly what Molly has witnessed this past month – John Watson will not allow himself to be saved, but he will be saved, if he can rescue someone else.

But helping Sherlock in this way – allowing him to inject himself with all sorts of chemicals that will slowly eat away at his body and mind, the body and mind that she holds so very dear – goes against everything she stands for. Every piece of her – every bone, every ligament, every cell in her body – is screaming out against Sherlock's plan.

She is not ready to commit to it, not yet.

"And the drugs. Did you choose that part of your plan because of John's supposed reaction, or because it was easiest for you?"

Sherlock swallows. "None of this is easy, Molly." His voice is wary, and there is an anxiety in his eyes that was not there before. "But no. I also need Culverton to believe that I am an unreliable witness." He leaves it at that.

Molly shivers, and her stomach churns, hot and cold. "Why – why invite me here, now? Why show me all of this? Why not just – I dunno – text me a time and address and 'Molly I need an ambulance on this date at this time'? Was it – was it just to avoid a scene like this?" She grimaces in distaste.

Sherlock's mouth twitches up at one corner. "Partly. And partly," he answers ruefully, "because while I am quite confident in my predictions and my abilities – there is, of course, the smallest of possibilities that I am wrong, and that John will not forgive me, this, ever-" his voice trembles, just a bit – "and that I will not make it out of Culverton's hospital of hell alive."

He looks up at her, and his expression is open and pleading. "I need you, Molly. I trust you. John trusts you. I need you to help me save John, and I need you to be…to be there. You'll know where the four recordings are, to convict Culverton, should something happen to me." He hesitates – "- and you'll know the truth."

For the first time since he has begun his explanation, she meets his gaze. He is a man reluctantly resigned to his fate, willing to ruin himself (again) to save his friends and regain what was lost.

Her heart breaks, for the hopelessness of it all.

"I asked you here," he repeats firmly, "because I wanted you to know the truth."

And she hears what he is saying, though he is not explicitly saying it.

I want you to know that I am not just a hopeless junkie.

I did not start using again for purely selfish reasons.

I value your opinion of me, so much so that I cannot bear to allow you to think I am as far gone as I appear.

"But John cannot know." He warns, bringing her focus back to the problem at hand.

She closes her eyes, and breathes in.

All of the excuses. All of the plans. All of the reasons. All of the pain. All of the love, in the midst of it all.

He has made his plan, and she cannot change it – but she can be a part of it.

She opens them, and exhales slowly, and her decision is made.

"Okay," she says, and she has never been more uncertain of anything in her entire life – and that includes Sherlock's last flirt with death.

"Okay?" He repeats, and his eyebrows rise a fraction in carefully concealed reprieve.

"Okay," she confirms. "But – I have some conditions."

Molly stands straight, hands behind her back, eyeing both men down, taking their measure and grudgingly accepting their sincerity.

She has inspected Sherlock and Wiggin's makeshift meth lab, and has carefully removed any pieces of equipment she has deemed damaged and unsafe, from a scientific perspective. She has made arrangements to replace them by tomorrow morning. She has double-checked their stash of needles – you're doing enough damage, don't need to risk hepatitis or HIV on top of that – and has promised sterile needles, if they need more. "You will contact me, Billy – me – if you need any more replacements, or have any doubts about your calculations. Do you understand?"

Wiggins swallows, eyes wide and disbelieving, and shoots a glance toward the unshaven, smirking man beside him. "Shezza-" he protests –

"-better do as she asks, Billy- " the man in question responds, obviously enjoying himself, beneath a mask of jittery annoyance.

"And you," she accentuates, turning to Sherlock – "you will text me every day."

Sherlock scowls, but Molly cuts him off before he can even part his lips.

"You will text me every day, even if it is just one word to let me know you are alive."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and Molly turns to Wiggins. "Make sure he texts."

Back to Sherlock, frowning again. "You can't 'save John Watson' if you're dead, Sherlock."

She takes a step back, face twisting into a tired grimace, and surveys the flat before turning a hard eye on the two men still standing before her. "Promise me?" she asks, and her soft voice cuts them like a knife.

Billy nods, eyebrows lifting in surprise at Sherlock's equally soft, cutting reply. "I don't make promises anymore, Molly Hooper."

She raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "If you fail to text me by midnight every evening, I will call in all the reinforcements-"

Sherlock's eyes narrow at her threat –

"-all of them," she repeats firmly. "Including your brother. And you can figure out another, less self-destructive plan to save John Watson."

"That's kind of the key point, isn't it – the self destructive bit?" He replies sarcastically.

"Then promise me, and it won't be a problem, will it?"

He glares at her serious, drained face for a moment, before his expression softens slightly around the eyes. "Fine. I promise." He holds up his pinky mockingly. "Shall we swear on it?"

Surprisingly, she hooks her pinky around his, face open and somber, mouth turning up at the edges for the first time all day. "Pinky swear," she whispers, holding him there - the whole plane of his existence hinged on that fixed point.

She releases him seconds later, and her face is all business once again. "Remember, Sherlock – it's not just John who'll never forgive you if you die, in this."

He blinks in surprise, and by the time he has regained his footing, she has already collected her things to go. She pauses by the door, studying her shoes thoughtfully.

"I cannot come here again," she says, voice low, "when it's – when you're – like this."

"I know," he responds, not bothering to apologize or thank her. She will not have it, not when it is only going to get worse from here. "See you in two weeks."

Thank you for reading!

I am convinced, due to Molly's lack of emotion in the ambulance scene, that she knew at least part of Sherlock's plan. Also - he asked her if she remembered his coat - and weren't most of the recording devices planted in there? Suspicious. Very suspicious.

I also believe that Sherlock did not consider going to drugs, again, until seeing Mary's video. He was clean in the scene when he and Mrs. Hudson got the recording, and I like to think he would have stayed that way.

Next up: The ambulance scene.

Thanks again!