I am so in love with Sherlock right now, and I couldn't resist writing this little missing conversation from the finale. Hope you enjoy!
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Interlacing his long fingers, he commanded her to repeat the plan to him again. Not for his memorization, obviously, but for hers. Molly complied, though it was the fifth time she had done so, avoiding the detective's gaze. She knew nothing could go wrong here. Both of their lives depended on it, and more. And though Sherlock was trusting her, she knew it wasn't her life that he was most preoccupied with saving.
No, that place of honor, the person Sherlock Holmes would gladly give his life for, was reserved for John Watson. Or at least, he would fake giving his life for him.
She finished the recitation without any slips; in academics she was proficient, it was human interaction where she tended to trip over her words. Sherlock continued to stare at the same spot on the floor after her last word rang out in the darkened lab.
Unsure at his silence, she asked tentatively, "Sherlock?"
"You said—" he began but shook his head ever so slightly, as if he might shatter the air around him if he moved too much, "You correctly observed—that I am… sad."
The words were slow and deliberate, like he was piecing together a strange discovery. Molly didn't know how to react to Sherlock telling her she was right, or even begin to process him discussing feelings, so she remained quiet and slightly wide-eyed, assuming he was going somewhere with both statements.
"This will destroy him, Molly," he lowered his arms to rest his elbows on his knees, "I will destroy him." He finally looked at her in the eye, probing for any signs of betrayal or mockery. "My best friend."
"You can't tell him?" Molly asked, already knowing the answer.
"No, Moriarty would know. John's not the greatest actor, even to the untrained eye." The corners of his mouth twitched up at some memory that was a mystery to Molly.
"Do you want me to tell him something?" she asked quietly.
"I've just told you; he can't know—"
"No, I mean… if something happens to you. I'll know—if you don't text me, I'll have to… I mean if you want…" Why were words so difficult to get out around him?
"If I die…" he muttered, as if the thought was completely alien. Well, he knew Moriarty intended to kill him, but that was different. That he could counterattack. But after? After he made his escape and started the hunt for Moriarty's contacts, any number of things could happen to ensure his death. Again. The odds were exponentially increased without John by his side.
"Tell him… the truth." For what else was there to say? "You all have to be extremely careful. If you do not hear from me every three days at the most, then you are to assume I am dead and tell him everything, and the others as well. I don't know all of Moriarty's associates, if they would come after you…" He seemed to be talking to himself more than her now.
"That's all?" the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
He looked at her sharply but then sighed heavily. His stooped-over frame belied his exhaustion.
"I will not beg him to not be angry with me, nor will I apologize. I am doing this to keep him alive, to keep all of you safe. Feelings only get in the way." He stood abruptly from the stool that he was sitting on, heading for the door.
Molly tried to come up with something to get him to stay when he stopped, his hand on the door handle. He inclined his head slightly back towards her.
"Tell him to stay alive. For me. The world needs less people like Sherlock Holmes, and more like John Watson."
Not trusting words, Molly only nodded.
"Thank you, Molly."
He swept out of the lab, and the last image Molly Hooper saw of Sherlock Holmes was a wisp of dark hair, a billowing coat, and unmistakably sad eyes.
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