This is my first ever Sherlock fanfic, so I hope I did it justice. Just a note, it has neither been Beta'd or Brit Picked, so there will probably be a few errors.
As always, I own nada.
Enjoy!
/
Or Whether Heaven Has Doomed That Shock Must Fall
-Alexander Pope, "The Rape of the Lock"
/
Molly Hooper had always predicted that one day the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes would spectacularly fall.
Of course at the time that she had made such a prediction, it was more of an accident than a prophesy, and in general more of a hope that the class A prat in her first-year English class – who unfortunately also happened to be the closest thing Molly really had to a 'friend' (though heaven forbid him ever hear her call him that) – would merely trip over his ridiculously expensive Italian leather shoes that she hated so much.
(Not that that would actually ever happen, as he was Sherlock Holmes, the man who ate dictionaries for breakfast and spewed out ridiculously posh insults as pleasantries, while at the same time having an air of grace and elegance topping off his over-all demeanor of full-time git, one of which Molly was forever jealous.)
She had heard about Sherlock Holmes long before she had ever met him, as he tended to have quite the infamous reputation around campus. His name was whispered by the first-years, and cursed by any who had the unfortunate luck of meeting him in person. The general consensus, however, was that he apparently was some kind of mind-reading genius who was generally given the label of weird.
Molly simply ignored the opinions of others on the matter, and decided she would save her judgement until she actually met the man herself, if she ever met him in the first place. And of course, the moment after which she came to such a thought, the universe decided that Molly's life didn't have enough drama as it was, and promptly sought to change that.
Which was how Molly Hooper found herself sitting next to Sherlock Holmes in a first-year English class.
She quickly learned that genius did not cover the sheer amount of knowledge stored in that vast brain of his, and that mind reading really wasn't all that far off the dot where he was concerned. She couldn't exactly condemn him to the title of weird though, despite his macabre interests and experiments. Pathology was her field of study after all, and she'd have been lying had she said she hadn't found his experiment on decaying flesh absolutely fascinating.
Of course, he initially considered her nothing more than a dullard who seemed to exist for the sole purpose of forcing him to endure the mundane curse of general idiocy – his words, not hers.
The twat.
It wasn't until she was able to shed some light on the biological standpoint of one of his less savory experiments, that he deemed her worthy enough to no longer be completely ignored, and occasionally snarled at. Instead he took it as an opportunity to guarantee a seat beside someone of barely higher intelligence than the rest of the imbecilic cretins he was forced to endure a class with, and he also took it as an open invitation to insist on her help whenever it deigned his fancy, while simultaneously giving him the right to apparently openly deduce her, wrapping the whole thing up in a nicely packaged insult to top it off.
In other words, she was the closest thing he had to an acquaintance, and he was the closest thing that she had to a friend (mostly because she had a sliver of intelligence, and he was one of the few people who didn't balk when she talked about extracting fluid from intestines).
As the school year progressed, she found herself more and more in the company of Sherlock Holmes, if only because he found her chosen career fascinating, and viewed it as an opportunity to try and steal bits for his own experiments. She honestly didn't mind – as harsh as his words could be, he was no longer intentionally mean to her, and instead directed his insults to those of lesser intelligence than she.
He was a third-year Chemistry major with a penchant for getting in trouble, and she was a first-year biology major, with a hope for doctoring the dead. They were weird together, and it worked.
Which brought her back to the matter at hand – their critical reading assignment of The Rape of the Lock.
She couldn't help letting out an unlady-like groan.
Sherlock simultaneously sighed and rolled his eyes in response, as his hand furiously wrote down… something.
"While I detest stating the obvious, that's your third groan over the course of the last forty-seven seconds, and I feel the need to remind you that making noises is not aiding us in any shape or form in our goal of finishing this assignment," He finished monotonously, eyes now scanning whatever he wrote.
Molly just groaned again. "It is helping. I'm decompressing all this useless junk from my mind. And for the record, you love stating the obvious."
The smallest quirk of his lip. "Perhaps I do," He conceded, quirking a brow. "And while I agree that this is nothing more than 'useless junk,' it still needs to be done if we want any hope of graduating from this abomination of a University. And groaning does not help. Read the next passage."
Scowling to herself – one of these days she was going to just ignore the demands of the gitwad just to see his knickers get in a twist – she picked up her book, eyes skimming to where they had left off.
"…Or whether heaven has doomed that Sherlock must fall – wait, I mean shock! That shock must fall," Molly chuckled slightly. "Though I would certainly pay to see you fall as well. It might actually knock your ego down a few pegs back into our atmosphere."
Sherlock gave her an unamused look, but she quickly started reading again before a fresh torrent of insults to her intelligence could tumble from his lips.
Later, she mused that Sherlock probably would fall eventually, if the laws of gravity and nature trapped him in a perfect moment. She tucked the knowledge away, snickering over it once and a while as the years past, and their friendship steadily grew. And she vowed to herself that if the pompous prick ever did spectacularly fall, she would be first in line to see it, and tell him I told you so.
She just never had predicted that he would fall three times.
Or that she would be privy to each and every one.
/
The first time he fell, it was quite literal, and quite physical, and overall not near as funny as she had once thought it would be. If anything, it was terrifying – there were so many what ifs, and unknowns. And what made everything worse was the circumstances surrounding it all.
Because Sherlock Holmes was not a fake genius. She had had to put up with the colossal git since her first year of Uni, and since then somehow managed to maintain a friendship with him all throughout undergrad and medical school, adventure and mishap, and the dark days of his drug addiction. Up until John Watson entered his life, she would've said her and Greg were his two closest friends, and there was no way, no way, that she was going to let someone like Jim Moriarty slander the brilliant man she had grown to love.
Unfortunately, Moriarty tended to be smarter than most people, resulting in extreme measures being needed.
Such as Sherlock falling off a roof.
Hours after the whole debacle – as she's fighting the guilt that threatens to consume her from spending the afternoon lying to John and Greg and Mrs. Hudson, telling them that she finished the autopsy and that he was gone, despite the fact that he was actually quite comfortable in her flat – she chuckles morbidly to herself.
Sherlock looks up for the first time in hours from her couch, his brow crinkled in confusion. She shakes her head in answer to his silent question.
"It's just," she takes a deep breath to both calm her nerves and stop her giggles, "Heaven has doomed that Sherlock must fall. Our first-year English class. You probably deleted it, but when we were reading The Rape of the Lock I–"
"-Misread the line replacing the word 'shock' with my name. Yes, I remember," He admits quietly, returning to his previous position. "Though I suppose today's events were a little more literal than what you had had in mind."
"That's one way of putting it," Molly agrees quietly, humor gone. "It's not nearly as funny as I'd thought it'd be either."
Sherlock snorts in agreement.
Unfortunately for the both of them, his next fall isn't funny either.
/
Her hand aches from when slapped him, but it's nothing compared to the rolling anger barely contained within her tiny body. He's made her angry before – wrecked assignments, stolen body parts, thoughtless words – but never has she been so absolutely furious. He had promised her, all those years ago when she had picked his limp form off of his bathroom floor for the last time. Promised her. And here he was having thrown that promise out with yesterday's trash, all for the sake of a case.
Forget furious. She was livid.
Being friends with Sherlock Holmes Molly had learned quite quickly to never take anything he said to heart. He was rude and manipulative and generally nothing more than an overgrown man-child.
But he always kept his promises.
Or at least, he did.
Up until that day Molly had only ever weaseled two promises out of the twat. The first was made the day after his fall from St. Barts, as he was leaving in the dead of night, slipping from her room silently enough to put Toby to shame, but not before promising that he would be back. That he would always come back.
And come back he did.
The second promise evidently did not mean as much to him as she thought it did.
The second promise was made after a month of silence on her end. She had cut herself off from him and their years of friendship in the desperate attempt of protecting herself. She cared too much for him, and as his drug habit grew constantly worse, so did her pain and fear. Each time he pushed himself farther than was safe, and each time she wondered if it would be his last.
Until of course, the time that nearly was his last.
She had been stopping by his flat to drop off a book she had just finished reading for one of her medical courses, that she had thought he might enjoy. He had given her a key years ago, after she had insisted on having one made since he could so easily access her flat by picking the locks anyways, and thus she argued that she should have easy access to his flat as well. She hadn't seen him in a couple of days – she could always tell when seven percent didn't seem like enough, and she would do her best to avoid him during those times, knowing he wasn't aware of his actions, and when he was high his actions always, always, aimed for the kill. Instead she opted for laying low for a week or so, or at least until Greg texted her to inform her when Sherlock was momentarily 'clean' again for a case.
This time, she was hoping her book could give him some much needed brain stimulation to drag him out of his drug-induced funk.
In the end she would never find out, as instead of finding an acerbic tongued junkie wrecking havoc to his dingy flat, she instead found something that made her heart freeze in her chest and her breath catch in her throat.
Most of it was a blur. Medical knowledge bounced in her brain aimlessly, telling her the signs of an overdose, and yet failing to compute them. At some point she must have called 999, because one moment she was shaking him, cradling his head, begging him to wake up, and the next there were paramedics, a hospital, a worried Greg, and a stone-faced Mycroft. After an unknown amount of time passed, a nurse finally came and informed the three that Sherlock would be fine.
But it was too late for Molly Hooper, because that day she realized something horrible.
She loved Sherlock Holmes, and she could not live with herself if she watched him destroy his life for a moment more. Yes, she wanted to be a Doctor for the dead, but that also meant that she never, ever wanted to be a Doctor for Sherlock Holmes.
And so she stood up, and left the hospital, determined not to turn back.
Sherlock knew immediately what was going on several weeks later when he was up and about again, and had been studiously ignored by the one person he had once been so certain would never ignore him. It wasn't until a month passed of the silent treatment, that he realized it would have to be the drugs or Molly Hooper.
He cleaned up his act within the week, even trading in cigarettes for nicotine patches. And he promised her he would never touch the ghastly stuff again. For years he kept his promise. He moved out of his dank rooms at Montague street, and found John who was without a doubt the best thing that could've ever happened to him. He was good. He was clean.
Until today, apparently.
It was a fall in every sense of the word. A fall from his years of hard-work, a fall from grace, a fall from her trust.
And the inconsiderate prat knew it.
"Molly," His baritone was uncharacteristically unsure, as he knocked again on her flat door. "I know you're in there."
She refrained from childishly releasing a string of expletives directed at the Detective, and merely stirred the lemon into her tea more vigorously. "Go away Sherlock. Why don't you go bother John?"
A moment of silence. "John is still stewing over the fact that Mary is an ex-assassin who shot me." Ah, of course. Seems everyone in her life was a trust-breaking psychopath. Except for Tom of course. He was as boring as they came. And she still managed to lose him along the way.
"Please Molly," Sherlock's plead broke her train of thought. "At least let me explain."
That did it.
"Explain?!" Molly finally let out the anger that had been stewing over the course of the last few weeks, as she all but ripped her door off its hinges, her tea slopping over the edges of her mug. She was met by Sherlock's wide eyes as she snarled at him in a way she had never before. "What is there to explain? It's fairly simple from where I see it. You broke a promise and shot up again, like a true addict."
He flinched hard at her last sentence. Good. About time he feel something along the lines of remorse for what he did.
"I had to. It was to protect Mycroft."
"Mycroft," Molly snorted in disbelief. "I find that hard to believe."
"I know," Sherlock placated, "But it's true. I can't tell you why for safety precautions, but I'm not lying to you, Molly Hooper. I know I broke my promise, and that it will take a long time for you to even remotely want to be in my presence again, but you have to know, I never wanted to hurt you. And I never meant to fall off the wagon to that extent, and I'm sorry."
For a good minute he stood on her stoop, looking for all the world like a puppy who was regretful for a wrong. And slowly as the seconds ticked by, her anger drained and was instead replaced with her usual disappointment.
"Okay," She finally stated. "I'm still upset that you did this, but if you say it was for Mycroft, I'll believe you. Just promise me one thing Sherlock – don't do this again."
Sherlock immediately perked up. But he hesitated at her final request. She watched his mouth close, as he contemplated what she asked, before looking at her directly.
"I can't promise that."
Immediately Molly deflated. "Then I guess this is goodbye-"
"-Wait," Sherlock bodily blocked her from shutting the door, desperation straining his voice. "I can't promise you because I don't want to risk disappointing you again. But I promise you I will try, Molly. I'll try. Because I can't lose you too, Molly. I won't."
For several seconds, the Pathologist and the Consulting Detective stared at each other, one pleading, the other judging. Finally after what seemed like a millennia, Molly finally opened the door wider.
Sometimes, she was too nice for her own good.
Relief seeped into Sherlock's frame, and he gave her a small, hesitant smile as he stepped inside.
"For the record," He added. "You've always seen this coming."
"You being a prat, or me being an idiot and forgiving you?"
"Neither," He kicked off the pricey Italian shoes she had once hated with a passion. "But you always predicted that I would fall."
/
The first time he fell, had been quite literal in a physical sense – Sherlock Holmes had fallen off of the roof of St. Barts. The second time he fell, had been more mental. He had fallen off the wagon, so to speak, and along the way had fallen from Molly's trust.
Neither of those falls could compare to the third, however. Because the third time, Sherlock fell emotionally.
His words ricocheted in her head, taunting her. How could he do that to her? She knew she wasn't John – she wasn't his best friend despite knowing him the longest, and she was okay with that – but she had at least thought he had cared about her enough to no longer be cruel. She thought that she had mattered enough to him.
And yet here she was, once more the victim of Sherlock's cruel games.
I love you.
She felt hollow, without a purpose. Broken. Sullied. He had always known she'd loved him, ever since she was a third-year Biology student, and realized that the eccentric genius she spent so much time with, was actually an attractive eccentric genius that she spent so much time with. He'd ignored it of course, the twat, and occasionally used her affections for him to get away with not so legally taking body parts home (She was still getting flack for letting him steal that head all those years ago), but overall, Sherlock knew better than to ever use her feelings for him against her in any way that mattered.
And then he had the audacity to call her three days ago, where he had done just that.
She still couldn't think back to that call, without a sob wracking her chest. After the matter she had heard through Greg that it actually was for a case – something about Sherlock and Mycroft actually having a crazy sister who tried to kill John, hence why she was still in the custody of Rosie. The circumstances she could understand.
It was the fact that he hadn't come to see her since, that really made Molly feel like nothing more than a means to an end. A tool for Sherlock Holmes to wield when necessary, and put away when not in use.
Rosie started to cry.
"Oh, hush sweetie. I know you miss your dad, sweetheart, I know. But him and the boys have to clean up your new home, and Mrs. Hudson says their making too much racket for a baby to be around," She cooed as she picked up the girl. "How about we go for a walk? Hmn? I could use some fresh air myself."
Fifteen minutes later the both of them were wrapped up warm as Molly made her way to the nearest park, Rosie in tow. It was an eerily beautiful day – grey with just a hint of warmth tucked into the frigid winter breeze. As she walked, Rosie settled into the crook of Molly's neck, and was contentedly asleep by the time Molly reached her destination.
As she sat on the hard, stone bench, Molly felt every creak in her body, and felt much more worn than her thirty-four years of life suggested. Other than the few ducks near the pond, her and Rosie were the only souls braving the small park.
Or so she thought.
He was silent as always as he sat beside her, his Belstaff making a dramatic sweep, and the navy blue of the scarf she had gifted him with over a decade ago was peaking from his flipped-up collar.
She didn't bother looking at him, knowing she couldn't without either slapping him again, or turning into a sobbing mess – both options which were out of the picture, as she didn't want to risk waking Rosie. Instead she settled for a more civil approach.
"What are you doing here, Sherlock?"
Her voice lacked no power, but she knew he heard her anyways by the way he stiffened ever so infinitesimally.
"You weren't at your flat," His voice was quiet too, and yet still managed to stir up the last dredges of something in her hollow chest.
"No, I wasn't because I've been there for the last three days waiting for the man who brutally tore me down to come and at least apologize, and when it was clear that that was never going to happen, I gave up," Her voice cracked at the end of her sentence, and her arms wrapped tighter around Rosie's little form. "I'm tired, Sherlock. And I just can't do this anymore."
His voice was tight when he asked, "Can't do what anymore?"
"You," She answered immediately. "Your cavalier attitude to anyone who cares about you," Her voice got even quieter, if that was at all possible. "Your manipulation. Your cruelty."
"It was for a case," He sounded pained. Good. He deserved to rot in Hell after everything he had strung her through.
So she answered with the truth, and nothing but the truth.
"I don't care."
And she didn't. Not anymore. How could she, when he had taken all the bits that made her whole, and so viciously twisted them apart?
She stood up, and turned to walk away, with one last sentiment on her tongue.
"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."
She didn't make it very far before she heard his baritone shout, "I thought you were going to die."
She paused mid-step, and Rosie shifted in her arms. Sherlock, the ego-encompassing twat, took her hesitance as a chance to continue.
"She told me you would die if I couldn't make you say it," His baritone was getting dangerously close to her back, and she turned around prepared to tell him off, only to find his face within inches of hers already, his blue eyes more vulnerable than she had ever seen. "I thought I was going to lose you, Molly."
"But don't you see?" They both ignored the crack in her voice, and the tears swimming in her brown eyes. "It wouldn't have mattered had I died or not. You lost me anyways."
In that moment, Molly Hooper watched as something vital died in Sherlock Holmes. He had fallen too far this time, and not even she could pick him up. She turned to go-
-Only to be stopped by his firm grip on her arms.
"But that's what made this all the harder, Molly," He spoke quickly, determinedly, as though he could never let her go. "I did mean it. I've always meant it, even when you couldn't hear it."
For the second time in the last few days, Molly feels as though the universe has an ugly sense of humour as the rug is ripped out from under her feet once again. She shakes her head, as the tears finally roll down her cheeks.
"Don't lie to me Sherlock. Not anymore."
His response surprises her. "I'm not lying. I promise."
And that's all it takes.
The next thing Molly knows is that she's wrapping her arms around his lithe frame, and he's pulling her close, careful not to hurt Rosie, but desperate for her touch. And they stay like that, wrapped in each other's arms, crying for all they've lost and gained. Two broken people, doing their best to make a whole one together.
Because Sherlock Holmes was always doomed to fall. And Molly Hooper had always predicted it would happen.
She had just never realized that she would fall with him.
/
A/N: This actually was based off events in my English class yesterday, where I misread Pope's line. I saw the 'Sh' at the beginning of the word, and the 'ock' at the end, and my ridiculous brain automatically read the line as "Or whether Heaven has doomed that Sherlock must fall." And thus was birthed this fanfic. Hope you all liked it :)
-AAG1D