Chapter Text
I
didn't want to love you so much,
and yet I loved you.
I did not want to give myself so much,
more little by little I gave myself.
I, who gave you all my dreams,
and for me I dreamed nothing.
I thought I had everything.
Look my love, I was wrong.
Why did you make me
fight with life,
living this lie.
I don't even know who I am anymore?
I walk between failures
and I dodge the claws
that the pain throws me.
I want you to come
as the only guest
to witness closely
what was left of me.
And I want you to stay,
just a few moments ...
I want you to see my end ...
.........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
"Miss…"
"Miss, I must ask you to please come down from ..."
"We arrived here ten minutes ago ..."
"Molly!!"
Molly Hooper raises her face and meets Mary Morstan's, said woman was kneeling next to her who was still sitting in the taxi, when she focused her gaze completely, she realized that John Watson was behind his wife reflecting concern.
“Honey, we should get out of the taxi. The driver knocked on our door and asked us to help you. "
"I ... yeah ... let's go." Said the confused woman who was still sitting. "Wait ... I haven't paid him yet ..."
"Don't worry, John already canceled." The blonde answered helping Molly out.
John got behind both women, watching out if Molly breaks down. They walked in awkward silence until they reached the surface of the Watsons' front steps. When they entered, they helped Molly take off her coat and settle into the kitchen.
Molly didn't know how she came to be sitting at Watson's kitchen table with a steaming cup of milk tea, in fact she had vague memories ever since she left 221B.
"What happened? Did you have a fight with Sherlock? " Mary asked as she covered the other smaller ones with her hands.
"Sherlock ... he ... is consuming again, I found him ..." The statement, as painful as it was, was true.
"What?! Are you talking seriously?!" John snapped before he could think about it.
"John" Mary soothed him with a gentle warning. “Molly, and what happened between you guys? Where is Sherlock? " She asked when she addressed her friend.
"I ... left him ... he must still be in the apartment." Molly said with red, watery eyes. "Mary ... I quit ... I couldn't, no more." Finally the sobs come out.
"Oh dear" May replied as she approached her and hugged her tightly. John meanwhile was helpless, not knowing who to console, his friend or this poor woman. He solemnly decided to help Molly who was now a trembling mess in his wife's arms.
Oh Sherlock, what have you done now?
In central London, at Baker Street and department 221B; Sherlock Holmes found himself sitting on the bathroom tiles with a small bag between his long violinist fingers. He looked to the sides as if waiting for something or someone to stop him. He incessantly massaged the contents, but in the end, as an act of performance, he opened the bag with white powder and proceeded to prepare the solution, the escape ... his escape.
A needle, a plunger, a piece of cotton, a prick, and much-needed oblivion. A learned procedure for years, but today, oh, today was different. The pain, rejection, and guilt he felt were a perfect cocktail for his system to embrace the seven percent solution. At last he was alone again, right? As he slid down the bathroom wall to the floor, Sherlock's head began to create scenarios, to remember, and to wonder, what will become of him? ...
Without her, he felt that life was leaving him, that everything he wanted was gone, that there was no reason for him to live. Without her he had nothing good to tell, his stories were coming to an end. Because Sherlock Holmes didn't know how to live without her, no, not anymore.
Maybe he would have to be a man and endure, seek other loves and face the harsh reality that he had lost her. Oh, if Molly knew what he suffered for not seeing her, what he had to endure, for rejecting what that woman made him do, for that way he had to love her, for that crazy way of giving himself to her, of loving her violently.
When Molly left, he spent time waiting for her to call him so that he would run into her arms, in need of love and demanding caresses. The hope left him when the hours passed and he did not receive any contact, the minutes passed before his eyes like the wind.
Now, on the cold bathroom floor, after being a teary and shaking mess, after fighting with his conscience, he came to a deep reflection, and that is that love ends.
Because the soul empties, like the pitcher and the cloud, because the caress glides softly like a shadow, because the feeling is smoke and ashes the word, because the gift heart breaks one day, because they become chains what one day they were white ribbons, because even the most divine caress becomes routine, because they are like rivers that every moment new the water, because the desires for the flesh and for the kiss die, because time has cracks, because cracks have the soul, because nothing is forever, that even beauty tires.
.
.
.