John had been gone for five days now and Sherlock was perfectly alright with it. Why wouldn't he be?
He was sitting in the flat, sipping his coffee with John's laptop open which he had lifted off his briefcase before his departure. Except for the faint traffic sounds, nothing was to be heard around him except for the sound of his own fingers, mindlessly tapping against the table. He was reading up on their old cases on John's blog. Except for his annoying habit to simplify everything, John was quite a good blogger. To say that his writings were interesting however, would be overdoing it, it had just become an easy way of passing the time while John's stayed with his parents for the week. Sherlock glanced at a grey jumper thrown carelessly over the chair next to him. Quite obviously not his. He recognized it as one of John's favourites and considered what could have made him leave it there. After a few moments he counted seven possible scenarios in his head, he then he tried to come up with an explanation to why he was sitting there, staring at John's jumper, while reading John's blog. He found a few, none of which he cared for. He slammed the laptop shut and put the coffee mug in the zink before heading into the living room to fetch his coat.
St Bart's hospital was lively and crowded and Sherlock hated it. Never before had he longed so for the companionship of cadavers. The stories they told him despite their silence was just what he needed to take his mind of his roommate, and if anyone questioned his presence there, he would just give a thorough and quick explanation to how the body under his fingertips was somehow related to the case he was working on with Lestrade. Not that anybody would talk to him. Even the interns knew by now that he was not to be addressed, he was there because he liked dead people. After all, he was a freak.
The final corridor leading to the mortuary was deserted and for some reason worse lit than the other corridors of the hospital. In fact, Sherlock couldn't see any kind of light source there at all, except for the moon shining through the small windows. The walls here had a solemn greyish tint which made him think of tombstones and ashy faces, but he didn't mind, death had never scared him, and it never would. He remembered the first time he had brought John here, during the 'A Study in Pink'-case, as he had called it on his blog. Sherlock had expected John to feel uneasy there, like Lestrade and the rest of the police force, but he didn't. His way of handling the death and violence they encountered on a weekly basis had always been one of the things Sherlock liked best about him; it was one of the many qualities that put him more on HIS side than on the rest of the world's. Sherlock realized his train of thought had once again strayed from the desired topic and he hurried towards the big door that promised his mind some serenity.
As Sherlock took in the familiar view of the metal slabs, the low ceiling and the long wall of shutters which held his objects of interest, he was surprised and somewhat disappointed to find that he was not alone. In the end of the room a lamp was lit, and he saw Molly sitting beneath it on one of the metal slabs. It didn't take his genius to realize that she wasn't working. The tight brown dress, high heels, makeup and tears were actually quite obvious tells. He knew she had noticed him, but either she didn't care or she was hoping that he would go away, for she covered her face in her hands and continued to sob uncontrollably. Sherlock hesitated. Should he turn around? Go back to the flat and find another way of distracting himself? Something told him no, definitely not. He walked up to her and hesitantly put his hand on her shoulder. No reaction. "Molly?" he tried. She stopped sobbing and looked up at him defiantly.
-"What do you want, Sherlock?"
-"What are you doing here?"
-"I actually work here. What's your excuse for visiting a mortuary on a Saturday night?" She snarled and made an undignified attempt at wiping away her tears. Even the front of her dress was wet, and the mascara gave her a slight zebra-like look.
-"Come on, Molly. We both know you're not working tonight." He smiled at her, for he knew from experience that it usually had the desired effect. Unfortunately, tonight was not a usual night.
-"Don't you dare try that with me!" She screamed at him. "Not tonight! Not now, not ever again, you understand? I'm done with you, I'm done with all of you."
Sherlock's mind was spinning. His theory regarding her behaviour was strengthened by her outburst but didn't explain why she had decided to curl up on a slab in the mortuary. He was still thinking when she stood up and strolled over to the large wall and placed a hand on one of the handles.
-"Well, Sherlock, are you looking for one in particular today or just browsing?" She said sarcastically.
-"What do you have in there?" He nodded towards the hatchet she was leaning towards.
-"Oh, he's just up your alley!" She said with fake cheerfulness. "Murdered, you see" Her present looks, situation and overall attitude made him feel uneasy, but he played along.
-"Let's have a peek then…"
Not a sound was to be heard as Molly opened the small hatched and pulled out the body. No screeching of metal against metal or whoosh of air when the object of their attention left its dark hiding place. She pulled back the blanket covering the body and they stood on either side of it, staring down in silence for a moment. Molly crossed her arms in front of her. Another person might have attributed the defensive gesture to the fact that she was staring down a dead body, or even the cold. Sherlock on the other hand, knew that she was simply bored. Her mind was miles away when she clinically quoted the autopsy report, which she clearly had memorized.
-"Male, 43 years of age. Found yesterday morning on a bench near Hanover Square. External examination showed no signs of trauma other than cause of death. Stomach contents revealed high levels of glucose, indicating his last meal was some kind of candy. Chocolate would be my personal guess, judging from the stains on his fingers. Toxicology report came up clean and I found no traces of alcohol in his system. Death was instant, a result of the bullet passing through his forehead and exiting through his occipital bone. It was not recovered, but the wound is similar to that of a small caliber. I also found gunshot residue, indicating that…"
-"… he was shot close range. Thank you, I know." Sherlock interrupted. He didn't know why he didn't want to listen to her anymore, maybe because he from a quick glance over the body knew most of this already. Maybe because he just wasn't interested. He had expected his mind to welcome a new mystery, one he could solve. Instead, all he could think of was John.
-"Of course you do!" She muttered angrily and pulled the white sheet over the body again. "There's nothing you don't know, is there?"
Sherlock hesitated. Was it really worth risking upsetting her again to find out why? Of course it was. His next words came slowly and he observed her carefully as she closed the hatch again.
-"I don't know why you're here."
Molly looked surprised for a second, then thoughtful.
-"I like it here" She finally admitted. "It's safe."
Months in the company of John had taught him a thing or two about irony, but he could detect none in her voice. She was dead serious.
-"Would I be right in assuming your date didn't go as planned?" He tried, putting his theory to the test while attentively observing her face, not to miss her reaction. His attention was wasted; he couldn't have missed it even if he had tried.
-"What on earth would you know about dates?" She exploded. "Have you ever tried any kind of social interaction without and endgame in mind? They're all right you know, Donovan and the others. You're nothing but a freak and I've been an idiot for thinking there could ever be something more to you!" She screamed loudly and her voice was so distorted through the tears that it was hard to make out the words.
Unfortunately, that didn't make them hurt any less. Sherlock had always liked Molly in his own way. Respected her? No, because he never realized that there was more to her than a silly girl with a crush on John(what other reason could she have for hanging around the two of them all the time?). That, more than anything, made a fairly good reason to make snide comments regarding her looks and intelligence, especially in the presence of John. Now, he felt like he had been making fun of a cripple, and now it was revealed that the cripple had been fully-functional all this time. Wait, what was that? Imagery? John must really be getting to me, Sherlock thought.
-"Well then, forgive me for questioning a fairly mentally stable person's decision to go and cry among cadavers in the middle of the night." Sherlock replied coldly.
She stopped crying and looked away, as if to hide her face from him. No use. He observed her intently and thought yes, definitely. Shame. Half a minute had passed before she had composed herself enough to answer him calmly.
-"I've been dating Gary for one month. He broke up with me a few hours ago. Said I was 'too plain for his taste and frankly, a bit weird'. Fucking arse." She commented hoarsely.
Molly was a strong woman. Sherlock had seen her examine bloated bodies, bodies beaten to a pulp and bodies of children without so much as flinching. Yet, she had never seemed weaker to him than in that last comment, and maybe that was how they were similar. They had their strength in all the wrong places. Or right ones, he added to himself.
-"Anyway, what are you doing here?" She asked him. Her face was almost dry now, but with the long dark streaks on her face it hardly made any difference.
-"I was bored." He replied absently as the grey jumper on the chair floated into his mind once more.
"Aren't you enjoying having the flat to yourself?"
It was an attempt to change the subject to something less loaded, and it failed miserably. She had struck a nerve without even meaning to or noticing.
"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" He said stiffly. He had meant the question to be rhetorical and it really had been, in his head where he had carefully selected the appropriate answer. It was only on his lips the words actually sounded like a question.
"Well…" She was frowning. "I don't know. Do you miss him?"
Sherlock stared at her. Did she know? Was she implying something? What was he supposed to answer? The truth? No, definitely not. Before he had the time to make an appropriately condescending comment he realized that she was smiling. His distress must have shown on his face.
-"It's quite alright, Sherlock. I suspected as much."
-"Please don't make assumptions about what I'm thinking, Molly. I'm afraid that's beyond your capability" He was trying to dismiss her, ridicule her, but he knew it didn't work. His insult only turned her amused smile into an empathetic one. Besides, his lies only worked when he really wanted them to.
Molly got up on her feet, still smiling. She stood in front of him, placing both her hands on his face, gently stroking his cheekbones.
The physical contact should have made him tense up, but it didn't. Actually, he could feel his shoulders relaxing and fought the urge to close his eyes for a second. How long had it been since he had slept? He couldn't remember the last time he had even bothered to try since John left. Anyway, he didn't have the energy to deny it anymore. To himself or Molly. He was just about to say 'I know it's alright" when she kissed him.
It had been a long time since someone really took Sherlock Holmes by surprise, but Molly Hooper did it. At first, her lips got no response from his own, but as he recovered from the shock he found himself meeting her in what was first an uncertain, then ferocious, kiss. While stroking her back, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary, he made a quick evaluation of what was happening and decided that it was not a very good idea. Not that the realization made him stop of course. His curiosity and the warmth emerging from her body made it impossible. Also, the physical contact was strangely comforting. Who would have known.