She felt empty; not that this was a new thing for her, though. She was insignificant, unintelligent, and useless. Sometimes she wondered what the point even was. She had been alone for most of her life, she was going to grow old alone and she was going to die alone. Insignificant Molly Hooper. Always had been, always would be.
Again, she woke up like every day (getting kind of dull and pointless) and got dressed into her usual, unflattering clothes (not like she had any options, though) before feeding the cat and going to work. The cracker for Molly was really the fact that she worked with dead people. She cut them up, found out how they died and they were taken away soon after that.
"Molly," someone called as they stalked into the morgue. "I need seven eyes. I'll be in the lab. John's sick."
Sherlock, the someone, walked past her, not looking at her and not bothering with pleasantries. He never did. Of course he would bark an order and expect Molly to get it for him. But she never got the credit she deserved. He'd never thank her or acknowledge her. Useless.
There was nothing to do but get what he demanded, knowing he'd get angry soon if she didn't deliver. John usually stepped in and told Sherlock to stop being an arse, but John was sick today and wouldn't be able to help.
Molly got to work, finding seven eyes that wouldn't be missed. As she collected the seventh and went to give them to Sherlock, the man sauntered past her with his head down, texting as he walked.
"Change of plan," he called while entering the morgue. He glanced over at her latest client, the man lying with two cuts in his chest. "Poisoned. I see you've missed the blatant signs on your repost." Unintelligent. Sherlock tsked before making his way to the exit. "Murder, seven dead, must dash.".
"Oh. Do you want the eyes?" she asked as he left.
"No." The door slammed behind him and she was left alone.
Insignificant.
She returned the eyes as best she could to the owners, mumbling an apology as she did so. With that out of the way, she returned to her autopsy; the one she had done wrong, according to the detective.
Instead of starting straight away, knowing she'd lost about half an hour from rushing about to try and assist the detective, she looked at her watch and sighed. She still had an hour until her lunch break and still several hours after that until she could go home.
Did she really want to go home, though? She was more insignificant and useless there than at work. Toby would hiss at her for not getting him food fast enough, then he'd leave after he ate. Molly might write in her blog and then have some wine before going to bed.
Insignificant. So insignificant.
She took her lunch break, somewhat relived when it rolled by. As usual, she went to the café a few streets away from Bart's and had a coffee and cake. As usual, she was ignored by 96% of the people she saw during her break. Once she had downed the coffee, she walked out of the café and back to the morgue.
'Oh. Of course,' she thought when she arrived back. Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan were examining some of the bodies that had come in while she was out.
"Hullo, everyone," she said as she got ready to assist them.
As usual, everyone (Donovan and Lestrade) gave her a small 'hi Molly' before getting back into their case at hand.
"What have you got on them so far?" Sherlock asked her as she got out her scalpel to work.
"Err, nothing. I just came back from lunch," she replied and looked over at him.
Rolling his eyes, frown on his face, and small huff of irritation/impatience. Useless.
She got started, despite the sinking feeling in her chest. Once she had done her part and Sherlock had done his, Lestrade looked at Sherlock.
"So you know who did it?"
"Of course. Let's go, I'll explain back at Scotland Yard," Sherlock responded and the trio left, leaving Molly to clean up and finish up alone.
"Bye," she muttered as the morgue door slammed behind them.
Insignificant.
Molly opened the door to her flat a few hours later to find Toby missing. He'd be scratching at the door in the middle of the night. She should get a cat flap installed. Or just leave the window open for him.
Forgetting Toby, Molly decided she might update her blog, seeing as she hadn't for a while.
Hi again. Nothing's really changed with me. Does anything ever? I don't know. I've been thinking about a few things like getting a cat flap for Toby. Any thoughts on that? Nothing interesting at work, no gossip. Not that I'd share, anyway. I've been thinking about taking up a new hobby. I don't know what, though. I'd love some suggestions. Anyway, I better feed my cat. I might write again soon, we'll see.
She wasn't going to get any thoughts on the cat flap. No-one was going to suggest a new hobby. No-one was going to read her blog, as usual.
Insignificant. Unintelligent. Useless.
Molly got changed into her pyjamas and got into bed, forgetting the glass of wine. She knew she wouldn't stop at one, anyway.
"Good night, Molly Hooper," she whispered to herself before rolling onto her side and attempting sleep.
But sometimes the tears in one's eyes limits how fast one can fall asleep, as Molly knew far too well.