Sherlock was three and trying to run from his baby sister, who wouldn't stop crawling after him. "Stop it, baby! Go away!" Molly, of course, did no such thing, and giggled happily as she chased Sherlock around the living room in circles. Around the chairs, the sofa, the coffee table, she was tiring Sherlock out with her affection. Mycroft just tried to ignore them.
"Molly took my bear again!" Sherlock Holmes, six years old, was throwing a tantrum because his four-year-old sister had stolen his favourite toy. "She took it and now she won't give it back! It's mine!" Molly smiled innocently, because Sherlock took Mycroft's things all the time, shouldn't she be able to do the same? Siblings shared things, didn't they? And Sherlock was a meanie if he wouldn't let her play with his bear.
Twelve and ten, Mycroft was leaving for university. Sherlock did his best not to cry, but Molly couldn't help it. She loved both of her brothers (she's too soft, probably because she's a girl, Sherlock decided), and couldn't bear to see Mycroft leave. They were family, even if Sherlock preferred Mycroft's company while Molly still spent her time chasing her brothers, trying to get them to notice her why won't they notice me, what am I doing wrong? She would miss Mycroft very much, and so, she suspected, would Sherlock.
One night, Molly had run to her room as Sherlock and their father argued. Well, she did that every night, really, because they were always fighting, always arguing. Sherlock's birthday had been less than a week ago, and even for a sixteen-year-old, he was rebellious. Doors slammed, there was screaming, shouting, hateful words spouted that Molly could hear even through her array of stuffed cats piled around her ears. Then, silence. Nothing. It always ended like that, with Sherlock storming to his bedroom, and then quiet for the rest of the night, but no, wait, that was the outside door slamming, not Sherlock's and oh no, Mother's hyperventilating and I have to do something what do I do what do I do? There was a thunk at the window and Molly ran to it. It was Sherlock, and when she poked her head out, he signed a quiet goodbye. Molly couldn't say anything back, she was too busy crying and trying to remember to breathe.
"Sherlock!" The word was whispered, as Molly had gotten into the habit of looking out her window whenever a car pulled up, hoping against hope that her brothers were visiting, that Sherlock was coming home. A grin broke out when she saw the curls that she hadn't seen in almost a year, and she ran downstairs to meet him before anyone else could. She jumped to hug him, and noticed how frighteningly thin he was and that there was something not quite right with his eyes. "Sherlock, are you alright?" Mycroft shook his head in warning, but Sherlock took ages to reply, and his voice was weak and distant as if he were deathly ill. "Molly, leave it." Molly was stunned. She'd never heard Sherlock sound like that before, never seen him look like that. She released the hug and he went upstairs to his own bedroom. "Mycroft...Mycroft, what's wrong?" Mycroft just gave her a worried smile.
She visited him in his little Mycroft-financed flat, twice a week, and she could tell he was secretly glad of the company. She had gotten him to finally tell her what had happened, what was wrong, the drugs, oh Sherlock why you? You're so clever and so strong and why did you let that happen? On Sundays, the three of them would go out to eat, and it would be a lot like old times, except for Sherlock's eyes...
And of course, Molly was the one who tried to talk Sherlock out of leaving university a year early. Molly and Victor. Sherlock resisted, said he got all he could out of a formal education, that he could teach the classes himself (which, Molly had to admit, was probably true). But it didn't stop them frowning on his decision, and then he stopped answering her phone calls.
"Will he be alright?" "I don't know." Sherlock lay unconscious in a hospital bed. First Victor-with whom Molly had grown very close-had died and now Sherlock had overdosed, all in the space of a week. Sherlock looked so helpless and so ill, and Molly didn't even bother trying to keep her tears hidden. The tone of Mycroft's voice was so solemn that it just made everything worse, and Molly plonked herself in the chair opposite Mycroft, on Sherlock's other side. She took his hand and rubbed it, I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I'm sorry, please be alright, please, please, we all love you so much...
"Job opening at Bart's," Sherlock said. He still looked after her, in his own way. Right now, he was trying to find her a job that she could take while sorting herself out. "Pathologist's assistant. Could be useful." Molly, like her next-oldest sibling, had always had a fascination with the dead, if not in the same way, wanting to find out what made them tick. She smiled, registering Sherlock's intent, because she knew he sometimes worked at Bart's, using their equipment and things to analyse crime scenes. He wanted her close by.
"He...he was...I'm sorry," Molly mumbled, mascara running down her face. "He was the best brother I could-well, Mycroft is, too, but, um, I'll just stick to my notes." It was hard to read off her little funeral speech, knowing full well Sherlock was still alive (as did Mycroft). But somehow, the emotion was all there. Every last bit of it. All of her senses told her that Sherlock was gone, that he was dead, that he would never see him again (again). So her speech was blubbery and emotional, and she didn't remember half of it, looking at the closed casket, watching it go into the ground, and trying not to become hysterical. She couldn't help it. And that night, when she went home to her cat and the dazed and concussed semi-conscious Sherlock, she hugged him and told him that no matter what happened, she would always care.