Sherlock: A Case Study, or: The Seven Sins as experienced by Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 1/7: Pride (Or, He doesn't need her. Until he does.)
Rating: T
Spoilers: None really... (Y'all know Sherlock's a bit of an addict, right?) Set pre-season 1.

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.

A/N: Hello. This is a bit of a change for me - not just this fandom, but also setting myself a theme target. There will be 7 chapters in all. Most are written, and I aim to update weekly. While each snippet could be read as a stand-alone story in their own right, they are linked. I hope you enjoy.

I'm sorry 'bout the attitude
I need to take when I'm with you,
But no one else would take this shit from me. – Long Day, Matchbox 20

He strides through the door, a bit more of a spring to his step than the last time she saw him. It makes the worry in her chest ease. The last time she had seen him, he had been moping around the place for days, muttering to himself.

Even the provision of a liver for an experiment without any arguments on her part hadn't quietened him down any.

Eventually, when she had finally gotten the nerve to ask if everything was ok, he'd given her such a look of incomprehension she hadn't dared say anything else.

After two hours of the silent, but fidgeting, treatment, she had gone to get them both a coffee. She had only been out the room for four minutes, but when she returned there was no sign of him.

That had been three weeks ago, and she had heard nothing from him since.

But now, he was back.

"Sherlock."

"Molly."

He barely looks at her before heading over to the microscope he always chooses. Slipping some slides out of a box in his pocket, he drapes his coat and scarf over an unused chair and settles in.

Molly smiles to herself. Whatever it was that had been wrong before seems to have settled.

Turning, she refocuses on her own work.

The quiet lasts for approximately two minutes before she is started by a loud crash from across the room.

"Shit."

"Sherlock? Are you OK?"

She's out of her seat and across the room in a matter of seconds. Her eyes take in the shattered slides on the floor, before the stiff posture of his form gets her attention.

He's too rigid. Too still.

Everything about him is coiled tight like a wound up spring about to be set free.

Everything, that is, except his hands.

They are ever so slightly shaking.

Trembling.

"Sherlock? It's OK. It's…"

Carefully, she lays her own hand over one of his, and his face snaps towards her.

His face has a look unlike she has ever seen on him before. Pale and wide eyed and dear god, there is something so not right with his pupils it actually takes a few seconds for the doctor in her to add up all the pieces.

In little more than a whisper, she asks, "Sherlock? Oh god, what did you do?"

He growls at her, standing suddenly, wrenching his arm from her timid grasp.

"Why do you care?" he snarls, slowly backing her towards the wall. It is all she can do to stand upright, so she lets him crowd her. "Why? You're just a stupid girl with a stupid crush and you don't have the first idea what it's like to be me." She feels the wall at her back, convinced he will stop now, but instead he raises his arms, and she finds herself caged between his hot chest and the cold wall.

"You say you know me?" he continues, looking over her in what would have been a searching gaze if he wasn't so out of it. "You don't know the first thing about me. Not about my past, or my family. You don't know how tiring you are. You all are. Idiots. Morons. You observe but you don't see. So don't stand there and tell me that it's OK, or that you know how I feel. You don't have the first fucking idea."

"Sherlock…" Her voice is more timid than she would hope for. But she's afraid.

Not of him. Never of him, but for him. She wonders if he even knows the difference. There is an anger in his words that is directed at something far beyond what she has ever done, she wonders if he is even aware it is her standing before him. Her heart aches for the man so lost before her, she feels a tear begin to form.

"Are you going to cry now? Huh? Little mousy Molly, going to squeak and scurry away and cry?"

There is something in his tone below the anger and the venom that is being flung her way. Not letting the tears fall, she asks, "What did you take?"

"Why do you care?!"

"Because you're my friend!" There is a certainty in her voice that makes him pause, and she watches him carefully as he pushes himself away from the wall (and her).

"Maybe I don't need friends." The anger has gone from his tone now, leaving just a desperately sad man, wilting before her eyes.

She doesn't say anything, just looks at him with tears welling. (Weak. She always feels so weak around him.)

He sees the tears, (of course he does; even high (and oh god what has he taken?) he is still the most observant person she has ever met,) sneers at her, before turning on his heel and storming out of the room.

It is only when she is sure he isn't coming back she lets one tear fall.

Glancing around, she sees he's left his coat and scarf lying abandoned over the chair when he stormed out. It's winter, and while not snowing it is still only 3oC outside, and he's high (and oh god, what has he taken?!) and he doesn't have his coat.

With a sigh, she pushes the words thrown at her into a deep box in her mind, pushing it to one side. (If he knew what she did with her memories he might be impressed. Once he's come down.)

Hefting the big coat into her arms, she briefly toys with the idea of shoving it in the first bin she sees. He would expect that.

But she is Molly Hooper.

She is his friend (even when he doesn't deserve it).

She takes his coat to his flat.

A timid knock on the door has his housekeeper/landlady opening it with a flourish. When she sees Molly with the coat she pulls her inside.

"Oh, thank god. I knew something was wrong when he didn't come home with his coat. He's been a nightmare. I can handle the violin at odd times of the night, but the shootings? Go see if you can calm him down will you?"

"I…"

There is too much in her head for her to form a coherent sentence. Violin? Shootings? Sherlock? What has he TAKEN?!

"You should see the state of the walls! Weeks, he's been like this. Ever since… He won't eat. Won't speak to me. Just plays and plays and then shoots the wall."

"I uh…" Before she can get much further, she is interrupted by the sound of a door becoming acquainted with a wall at speed.

"Mrs Hudson. Who are you…?" He stops when he sees her standing there. Before she can say anything, he has beaten her to it. "Molly."

His face pales, and he shuffles backwards, clearly intending to go back inside. But his feet get caught in the dressing gown he is wearing and he stumbles.

Without thinking, Molly rushes up the stairs, getting to the top just as Sherlock lands in an undignified heap on the floor.

"Are you OK?" She bends over to help him up, trying to hide the look of hurt when he pushes her arm away.

"Molly?"

"Sherlock." This time, when her arm makes contact, he doesn't brush it off. Trying to meet his gaze, she tries again. "Are you OK?"

"What…? Why…?" There is nothing but confusion in his eyes. But at least it's more than the dead look he gave her when his pupils were the size of a pin.

Molly gives him a small, encouraging smile. "What?"

"Why are you here?"

The question is so soft, so timid, she has to strain to hear him. Glancing down, she spies his heavy Belstaff, and latches on to the excuse it provides. "Your coat."

"But... But what I said…" There is so much confusion in his eyes that it gives her pause. She knows he has family, but the look he is currently giving her makes her wonder just how much contact he actually has with them. Because the eyes of the man sitting on the ground before her are those of a lost and hurt little boy, used to being abandoned; used to being alone in the world.

"It's OK."

He shakes his head. "It's not OK."

"I forgive you."

"You… why?"

(Because she is Molly Hooper. And he is Sherlock Holmes. And she will not be another reason for the look of hopelessness in his eyes. It is a promise she makes in that moment, one that she does not yet know will be the hardest promise to keep. But she is Molly Hooper. And she keeps her promises.)

"Because." When she sees he still needs more, she gives him a small smile. Just the barest quirk of her lips. "You're my friend."

He is silent for a moment, eyes downcast. Just as she begins to feel to need to move as her legs begin to cramp from the way she is knelt over him, he raises his gaze. The need and despair in them makes her catch her breath. "Molly? I think I need some help."

"What do you need?"

Without meeting her eyes, he slowly rolls up the right sleeve of the dressing gown. The pyjamas he has on underneath are fashioned with short sleeves, and so his arm is bared.

And she sees his truth.

The veins of his arm are bruised. Puncture marks litter the length of his arm. She knows, without looking, his other arm must be in a similar state, if not worse. (He is right handed, after all. What state must his left arm be in for him to start on his right?) Still unable (unwilling?) to meet her gaze, his answer is the smallest mumble, but it still makes her eyes sting.

"You."

She checks him into rehab. It is the first time he makes it through without attempting to break out of the place once. And, after the obligatory three month stay, she smiles when he tells her he's decided to stay in one more. Just to be sure.

When he eventually leaves the clinic, she is there to pick him up. He smiles at her (a real smile, not one of the fake ones he normally gives people. It does something to her insides that she really needs to stop, lest he decide to use it against her) and squeezes her hand once before letting his hands fall to his lap. "Thank you."

She gives him a quick smile back. "I said I'd pick you up."

He shakes his head. "Not for the lift. All of it. I…" He stops. Sighs. Looks down, before he makes sure he meets her shy gaze with one that is full of… something. Something strong and powerful and something neither of them dare to name. "Thank you."

This time her smile is softer. Warmer. "Anytime. Any time you need me Sherlock. You just need to ask."

He pauses, but when she doesn't say anything more, gives a small nod. Reaching over, he gives her hand another small squeeze. She squeezes back, before turning the engine over and starting the journey back to London.

They never speak of the moment again.

TBC

Thoughts?