Falling (JohnLock)

chpr. 15

Rain pelted on the windows, pattering and splattering on the thick glass. Molly tried hard to comprehend was she was just told, and she let her tremoring hand take out a stick of lip balm. She popped the cap off, and shakily put it on, applying several layers. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Her big, brown eyes slowly became watery and she looked away. “Are you absolutely sure, Greg?”

“My people saw him… after,” he confirmed and she glared at the poor man.

“How do you know they’re not lying?” she snapped at him and he frowned softly at her tone. The rain faded into the background of their conversation.

“It’s not just my men, Molls. It’s Mycroft’s too,” he said quietly, trying to disarm her.

“Why is Sherlock’s brother watching John?” she whispered, as if Mycroft himself would hear them if she spoke too loud.

“Who knows why that man does what he does?”

“This is my fault,” she declared suddenly.

“Molly Hooper! How could it be your fault?” he asked, wrapping her in a hug that she eagerly returned. She didn’t reply, but her guilt-etched face could be easily seen on Greg’s shoulder. She closed her eyes, and buried her face into his neck, gripping the back of his jacket with a shaking hand.

A firm knock at the door startled John from his sleep, which was the only place he got to see Sherlock. He didn’t recognise his surroundings immediately, but when he did, he shook his head in disbelief. “No… no… no… no… NO!” he yelled and Molly jumped slightly, rushing over to his bed.

“No! NO! What am I doing here? No! Please! I can’t be here, Molly please!” she shushed him frantically as two other men rushed in, wearing blue scrubs, and held his frantic body down.

“John, do you know where you are?” Molly asked calmly and he glared at her.

“Of course I bloody know where I am!”

“You’re at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital,” she clarified.

“Yes I know that bit!” he yelled, and then whispered, “Please don’t make me stay here”.

“I’m sorry, John. Give him something for the pain,” she muttered on her way out as the men injected his drip with a local anaesthetic. He slowly slipped into unconsciousness, unaware that he had been in immense pain when he woke up. A thick swell of flesh was stitched around his neck, the skin bulging in between the thread, itching. The nurses let go of him when he fell still, his chest rising and falling slowly, and fixed the blankets around him.

Molly sat at John’s bedside, her brow furrowed, watching his calm and peaceful sleep. Her eyes darted to the swelling of his stitches and she let her face fall into her hands. It's all my fault.