This is just a little Molly ficlet, and a little bit about how she is taking Sherlock's fake suicide. It's very short, but I couldn't get it out of brain, so here you go!
~Sometimes~
Sometimes it was hard. It was easy to forget, especially in the company of people around who didn't know the truth. And, maybe if she were honest with herself, the truth wasn't that far from the lie.
He was gone, wasn't he?
She was always the girl infatuated. The girl that ran after him, tugging onto his coat tails for attention. The girl who brought him coffee every morning - black, two sugars. The girl who let him walk all over her inspection room and lab. But, at the time, it was okay. She knew what he was doing, but to be used by him was better than no interaction at all.
Sometimes it was easy to relapse.
Work was the worst. Everything about it made her remember him. The spot where he sat, the stool that he used, the microscope set aside for him. His chemistry set on the shelf that she had gotten him when she was tired of not having access to her own. The spare paper with gibberish tossed somewhere on the counter that she would find, months after he had gone. Work was an unwanted reminder to the past.
However bad it was in her workspace, nothing compared to when she would have a run in with John. It happened often, as it would, for the both of them shared the same employment place and both worked the same hours. They ran into each other during lunch not long after the incident, and she took pity on him - she invited him to sit with her. They small-talked about the weather and the latest football game, and it was a small relief to the usual pain both of them felt. Still, she saw that distant sadness in his eyes, and she knew that hers reflected the same.
Sometimes it was easy to think.
Think what it could have been. Wonder how many cases would have been solved already, how many killings could be prevented. She wondered if it could be worst, if the whole incident could have been avoided and Moriarty was still on the loose. She was horrifed, often when she thought of this, that she'd rather Moriarty still be around than lose him. It was silly, especially since she knew that she never actually had him.
Sometimes it was easy to get angry.
How could he do this to her? How could he do this to anyone? He may have not seen it, but people cared, goddammit! People didn't want to lose him, didn't want to believe the lie. They didn't want this. He was so selfish!, she often thought on the common night when she was kept up thinking about him. Why?
Sometimes it was easy to forget.
She knew where he was. She knew he was safe. She knew his new number and she knew that he could - and would - count on her. But, on normal days as it usually is, it wasn't enough. He wasn't around the way he used to be, he wasn't there to backhandedly compliment her and grace her with his inquisitive mind.
Sometimes she was just as hurt as the rest, who didn't know.
And sometimes, knowing hurt just a little more.
