Asylum

Read A/N: Honestly guys, this thing isn't my greatest achievements. I meant to write a nice, lovely fic for Lono, but then this thing came to mind. I apologize. I'll go write that nice fic now. Also, this fic contains dark themes. DARK and DISTURBING. Kinda. It's an angst fest, so yeah. I apologize, especially to my dearest beta, who I may have traumatized. Sorry. SO DAMN SORRY.

Sebastian Moran was dead, they said. He was dead and buried, just like his employer. Sherlock Holmes had shot him twice in the head. No one survived that, they told her. She believed them, even though the deep scars on her wrists had not yet healed.

But she would be going home tomorrow. She had been promised.

The hospital bed in her private room was uncomfortable; the blankets were itchy and irritated her scars. But it was fine; tomorrow John would take her to Mrs. Hudson's. She did not want to go back to her own flat, she did not think she could ever look at her bedroom wall without envisioning Moran's brains splattered all over it. So she would stay with Mrs. Hudson.

She hoped she could see Sherlock. It was likely, seeing as he lived upstairs.

She was going home, tomorrow.

John seemed distant and drawn. Mrs. Hudson had tears in her eyes. She gave her a hug that lasted too long. Molly told her she had only been gone a few days; there was no reason to miss her so much. This made the tears fall harder.

She did not understand why.

John looked startled when she asked if he could help her carry her bags. He helped anyway.

Sherlock did not bother coming.

He's probably very busy, Molly told herself, the still raw scars of her wrists tingling, after all, he just came back from the dead.

Mrs. Hudson's sofa was more uncomfortable than the hospital's bed, the material making her feel as if her skin was being rubbed raw. She did not even have a blanket, and she was cold. The telly in the elderly woman's room was on too loud.

She couldn't sleep, but she was certain Martha Hudson had long gone to sleep.

The flat moaned around her, a sudden wind rattling the doors and the kitchen window. She was terribly reminded of the night Moran had broken into her house, broken Toby's neck in front of her and then proceeded to-

She shivered and covered her face, trying to block out the images.

She was unsuccessful.

There was a phone next to her, and she grabbed at it. Dialing the one number in the forefront of her mind, she prayed to whatever God out there that he would pick up.

He would pick up, he always did. It was the emergency number he had given her when he had gone on his mission to bring down the network. He would definitely pick up.

He always picked up at the first ring. This was no exception.

"Hello?" his voice was rough with sleep, but Molly did not dwell on the fact that he had actually gone to bed. It was nearly 3 am after all.

"Sherlock," she managed to breathe into the phone.

"Molly?" he asked the voice clearer and the baritone made a shiver go down her spine. "Why are you calling me now? Where are you? Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

The concern in his voice was disorienting, and very nice to hear. But she was a bit hurt that he hadn't bothered to pick her up today, and now he had the gall to ask her where she was.

"You know where I am," she said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice as the windows creaked again. "Come downstairs. I'm…I don't feel very well."

The door clanged open and Molly jumped as she watched the tall figure with his coat billowing around him enter. "Molly," he said again, just once, and Molly smiled at him.

He took her hand and ran slender, gloved fingers down the smooth, clear skin. Then he pulled her close and buried in his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply.

(There was something wrong with this picture. Something. Why was he wearing gloves inside Mrs. Hudson's flat?)

She was touched. "If you missed me so much why didn't you come earlier, to pick me up?"

He pulled away and frowned for a mere second before he cupped her face, his expression now blank. But it was the tenderest gesture he had ever shown her, the way his warm, leather-covered hands cupped her face. It felt nice.

(He seemed older somehow. Maybe taking down the network had taken a lot out of him.)

"Molly, where are you right now?"

She frowned, and something tugged at the back of her mind. "Mrs. Hudson's flat-,"

Sherlock sighed, and Molly could have sworn he held back a sob. He pulled her close again, foreheads resting together, both hands still cupping her face.

The show of affection was not unwanted, but still unnerving.

"Sherlock, what-,"

"What is the last thing you remember, Molly?"

"You shooting Moran and Mycroft telling me to stay at the hospital so I could heal after what he did to me."

Sherlock made her sit down on the dreadful couch again, but he let her rest her head on his chest, and she could feel the beat of his heart, steady, if going a bit fast. "How long has it been since I shot Moran?

"Two days ago," Molly said, but the information seemed wrong somehow. Her answer seemed to make Sherlock age further.

"Oh darling," he said, his voice deep and tender, her heart skipping a beat at the endearment, which seemed familiar somehow. "Molly, Moran's been dead for ten years."

"Wha-?" she said, feeling her panic levels rise. "No, no that can't be true, I've only been in the hospital for three days, no, you're lying-,"

Wordlessly, he lifted her hands, and she realized that her skin was unmarked, apart from the slight marks of long healed scars. And that was when she noticed.

He had removed his gloves some time earlier, and she saw the gold band gleaming on his left ring finger.

"Sher-,"

"Molly, Molly, Molly," he whispered as he tucked her underneath his chin. "Do you not recall anything? Please, try. Just try."

It hurt. It all hurt.

"Three years after I killed Moran, you were in a car accident," Sherlock said, his voice steady despite that fact she could hear his heart thundering. "You were with Mary Morstan. The car skidded on ice, and Mary lost control."

No, it was too much. It hurt so badly.

"Mary died instantly," Sherlock said and she grabbed onto his warm coat, trying to block out images of a blonde woman with a warm smile and wonderful laugh. "You were with child. My child."

He took a deep shuddering breath but continued. "I lost my unborn child on the very same day I lost my best friend to his grief. And on that very same day, I lost my wife to her mind."

He watched as Molly Hooper-Holmes sank back into her mind again, her eyes going blank. He wanted to scream, he wanted to shake her, that he wanted her back, or at the very least he wanted his life back, before when his heart kept getting wrenched by the tiny, mousey woman every day of his existence. Work now did exactly what the drugs had done before; numbing the pain for a short while before it came rushing back.

John fared better than him, he was able to move on, and Sherlock envied him for it. John did not have to see Mary in this terrible state. Mary would be eternally young to them all- Molly had turned into a shade of her former self.

He carried the now catatonic woman in his arms to her room, glaring murderously at the orderlies who came to help.

He laid her on the bed, pressing a soft kiss to her temple and closing her eyes. "Sleep well, Molly. I will visit, soon."

He punched two of the orderlies on the way out. He would ensure they lost their jobs and their abilities to get jobs elsewhere for letting Molly wander so far out of her ward.

Sebastian Moran was dead, dead and buried like his employer.

Molly Hooper would be going home today, even though the scars on her wrists had not yet healed.

A/N2: Guys, again. I apologize. I have this new found respect for those who actually write angst (most of all Elixir BB. Darling, you write great stuff. I think I'm addicted.)

Lots of love to Tiffany. Really, dear Tiff, I'm sorry for ever writing this.

Please don't hate me.

Review?

Adi xooxoxo