Disclaimer: Sherlock and all its characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing.

A/N: This is the rewrite of my story 'Glass Heart.' It's more medicine and psychology heavy than it was last time around and with less shameless fluff. I hope it doesn't disappoint.

The new title is from Regina Spektor's song 'Samson.' If you haven't heard it, go listen to it, it's absolutely amazing.

Enjoy and please review.

Molly Hooper doesn't cry.

She hates the way that it makes her choke on her breath and shake like she's about to shatter into pieces, hates the way that it makes her eyes puffy and her nose red. Most of all, she hates the way that anyone can walk past and see how much you're hurting. She hates being made to trust people with her deepest feelings that she tries so hard to keep a secret.

So she presses them down, chokes on the tears in her throat and pushes the everyday hurts until she almost doesn't feel them anymore. In all their infinite wisdom, both of the men that she fell for probably knew that.

She didn't cry when Sherlock Holmes tore her self-confidence into pieces. She didn't cry when her Jim turned out to be Moriarty, a criminal mastermind.

But today, she slams her back against the wall and slides down to the floor until she's sitting on the cold, hard tiled floor. She hugs her knees to her chest and gasps in a desperate effort to get air into her lungs. She digs her nails into her legs and her hands clench and unclench around the white stick with the little pink plus sign.

When she has cried herself dry, she stands up and splashes cold water on her face then wipes it away on her sleeve. She leaves the bathroom, slipping the test deep into her pocket and taking a deep breath in. She walks through the hallways, smiling and inclining her head at all her colleagues as she passes them.

She doesn't let them see how her hand is trembling, still deep inside her pocket. She doesn't let them see how she bites the inside of her lip to keep from screaming.

Most of all, she doesn't let them see how much this scares her; this child growing inside her, one that's half her.

Because it will be half him too. The man that she's been trying to forget. The man who she's been trying to run away from, though she still wakes up every morning with the taste of him on her lips, half-imagined and half-remembered.

She tries to hate him, she tries to be repulsed by the memories of his warm breath at her ear when he whispered to her, his laugh, the way he played with her cat, the way he picked her up like she weighed nothing, threw her on the couch and tickled her until she was breathless but still giggling in spite of it. She tries so hard to remember that he has killed people who did him no wrong, snuffed out lives like oil lamps. She knows that she couldn't have meant anything to him.

Molly can never quite bring herself to regret Jim Moriarty. His deception was her downfall, but it was the sweetest one that she had ever experienced.