Two Years Too Late

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, I would've written episodes with 99% less fangirl sadness and 100% less hiatuses. I also would've given John a beard, not a mustache. Unfortunately, as we have observed, I do not own Sherlock.

A/N: My other multi-chapter Sherlock fanfic, "Watson's Niece," will be out shortly. And by shortly, I mean like a few weeks from now. *throws flowers at your face*

Please favorite and review. :3 I really want to know your opinion about this fanfic. It's an ambitious style.

Last but not least, I am American. I apologize for pouring tea in the wrong cup or playing the violin the wrong way.* If I do make these mistakes, please tell me.

Enjoy! XD

*Translation of what I said: "I apologize for incorrect aspects of British culture or Sherlock references."

~Chapter 1~ ~The Wilting Flower~

Molly Hooper always thought the world would fall in a graceful manner. She always thought the last light of summer would fade out like a dying light bulb, flickering until it plunged the Earth into darkness and took all the moonlight with it. She always had the image of wilting flowers on a windowsill, watching their life source die, doing nothing but wilt in a melancholy gesture. Picturesque, impressions on paper made with the light strokes of a pencil and the slightest touches of watercolor, simply disappearing into the darkness. If only the world could die in such a light way.

As she got older, blocks of words and pictures marched across her eyes; her interest in science led her to what really happens when the sun dies, the passing away of the world ensuing. The sun's burning hot core would blast the world with intense, never-before-seen piercing, hot power, evaporating every single drop of water and leading to the death of everything living and the destruction of almost everything manmade. When the sun had died, just like the Doctor regenerating, it will leave a world broken and uninhabitable. It would leave it dead, ravished by extreme, merciless power.

She only wished it would be hotter in London.

Molly took her trips to the past on sidewalks of bustling, I-don't-give-a-damn London, bundled up in her warmest outdoor attire. Every step her three-year old leather boots took, her soul flew farther and farther into the past. She could feel every color, every feeling that she had felt; from the yellow happy memories of her picture-perfect childhood gave to the purple and white fantasies of lab equipment and purple dress shirts.

When she felt her father's proud hug or the detective's sexy smart-talk, she reminded herself both of those men where in her past. Far, far in her past.

The city around her, plagued by harsh winter, was starting to melt. The first rays of sunlight peeked from behind heavy clouds, shining down on bare, skinny trees and nestling birds, who were starting to sing their morning songs. It was always cold to Molly, no matter if the slightest bit of sun peeked from behind rain or if a rainbow shined against her from passing sprinklers. Even on the 'happiest day of her life' it was cold. Even in the middle of summer she requested a heavy jacket to be worn whenever she went outside. Or, what her best friend noticed, whenever she met the eyes of family members. No one else said a word, because everyone there could read Molly like a book.

She found herself seating her bottom on a dew-covered wooden bench, adjusting her woolen beanie. Biting her lip, she decided to sit there and take in this part of her past she had stopped at. Her walk into the past was halted, paused like a movie as she recalled memories. After scratching the very bottom of the pot she gathered enough will to look up. When she finally did, her heart skipped a few beats. She felt her legs itching with the temptation to walk back into the present, but her mind kept her rooted there.

The door that was directly on front of her across the street stated, 221B. The charming, worn knocker and the licorice-black paint chipped, but it still held strong memories. The colors of purple and red swirled around her, the memories of the purple dress shirt and the crimson of her cheeks ran after her as she stood up and walked faster than she should have back into the present.

She felt flustered; her cheeks were red and her pupils were dilated. She couldn't face 221B as a pigment of her own, real life; she could only approach it like an admirer with ink and paper or like a childhood story, a fictional character carrying out dashing rescues and solving thrilling crimes on the walls of a bedroom in crayon. She could never face it like it was her life before, like she had given him eyeballs which he kept in the back of the refrigerator or like she had given him a gift he never opened.*

Desperately grabbing at the present, she glanced down at her wedding ring. She grabbed it and pulled it off of her finger, examining it closely, from the slightest scratch to the gleam of gold in the sunlight. You are happy. She told herself, You are happy.

She kept telling herself that lie. She kept on telling everyone that lie. She told everyone that she was happily married to Tom, an awkward, lanky man who bore a slight resemblance to the absent consulting detective. He was chosen by her friends to suit her type and needs; however, this meant a man with the same awkward demeanor as her and the appearance of a certain detective. He was a doppelganger, a staircase leading to the door of her happiness. Apparently, it would help her reach something she'd never opened the door to. Happiness. Pure, yellow happiness.

She wore turquoise to Mary and John's wedding. Observing the bridesmaid's dresses, which were a pasty orange color, she decided her choice of dress wasn't near to horrible. Strolling through the sunny courtyard of the venue, the dizzy crowds of people passed by her eyes in a blur of silence and thunder. She went up to Mary and told her how beautiful she looked, while Tom stood by, as awkward as ever. Tendrils of warmth and familiarity reached out of Mary's natural vibrance; immediately, the two women formed a friendship. Clutching John's hand, Mary told Molly something she would never forget, "You'd look beautiful in yellow, Molly."

There was a dress sitting on the bed Molly shared with Tom. It was spread out, along with a matching cardigan. The very sight of it made her eyes hurt; it gave out a vibrant yellow so bright it punched at her heart. She imagined her happy in that dress, with a giant yellow ribbon in her hair to match. With shaky arms, she had held the dress on front of her at the mirror. She tried to pull the corners of her mouth up into a smile, but they returned to their permanent place, formed in a frown.

She didn't touch it again until Tom came home from work, asking her who had given her the dress. The note that had sat on the dress was now slowly burning away in the midst of merciless flames in the warm fireplace, turning into useless, undecipherable ash, Molly's eyes watching it burn. She told him it was a friend who owned a dress shop and kissed him on the cheek. The whole night she kept in mind what was written on the note. She tried to push out the thought of the initials. She tried to convince herself that she didn't recognize the handwriting. This was yet another lie she told to herself and everyone else.

Do me a favor, Molly Hooper, and wear this at John's wedding. –SH

The wedding reception was dull at most. Even the bright, noisy yellow wallpaper did not help the flat atmosphere and the grey frowns on people's faces. Mike Stamford, John's best man, had a heartwarming speech, but those closest to John knew he'd have preferred someone else giving the speech. After that had cut the cake with picturesque and photogenic behavior and smiles, the bride and the groom strode towards Molly, whom Tom had left alone due to a trip to the loo.

Before her hand could reach a platter of truffles, it was grabbed by John's. She looked up at his weary, bittersweet eyes. He looked like a wilting flower; he would never be as bright as he could be without his best friend, but he was still pretty and most, holding enough happiness for children and enough patience for a married life.

"He was a good man," he told her.

Molly pulled her hand out of his grip, giving the biggest smile she could muster, no bigger than a speck of dust. "Yes, I know."

Molly left the wedding early. She left her cardigan on Tom's chair as she walked out with bare shoulders. Melancholy music echoed out into the darkness from the building, ivy crawling up walls illuminated magenta. The air was piercing, stark cold, and she could see her breath front of her as she crossed her arms. Cold did not bother her.

"Molly Hooper?"

Instantly cringing with the expectancy of a hiding reporter in the bushes, Molly was slightly relieved to see Mycroft Holmes in the bushes instead. He walked forwards with lines on his face framing stress and seniority. His deadpan face and his mourning outfit did not fit in with the dance-worthy music and the whimsical landscape. Standing directly on front of Molly, he made an effort to look caring.

"You didn't wear the dress as directed."

Molly felt her face fall as her eyes wandered elsewhere. She rubbed her arms, murmuring, "Why should I have worn it?"

"He wanted you to wear it."

"Oh well," Molly spat out, feeling the vibrant happiness of the yellow dress drain out of her. Her cold, silky turquoise dress couldn't be any colder. "I didn't want to wear it."

Molly Hooper didn't want to be happy, was what Mycroft's complex mind of cogs and waterfalls deduced. He took in a deep breath, holding his chin up high with every slightest bit of respect. "He wants you to be happy."

Reaching back to pull the matching turquoise bow out of her hair, Molly turned to walk towards the road. "I don't believe that."

Sherlock Holmes is dead. The sentence echoed in her mind the whole way home. The long cab ride, the light of London, a vibrant city thriving in the midst of unmistakable darkness under weak moonlight. She looked down at her turquoise dress and saw the sadness in her eyes. Sherlock Holmes wants—no, wanted—her to be happy. She doesn't care. She doesn't care and she sends the yellow dress into exile at the very back of her closest for eternity, left to gather dust along with a box of her childhood mementos. Sitting in a silent flat all by herself, still engulfed in chalky wedding afterglow, she closes her eyes and tries to forget "black, two sugars" and "being sad when no one can see you." She tells herself that she never counted and falls asleep, waking up to find Tom's arms around her.

Molly never visits Baker Street after that. She never bothers to dwell in the past again. After hopping into a cab a few blocks away from 221B, she makes her way home, home which is in Tom's arms, in his flat, in the light of day. She leaves Sherlock Holmes behind her, but she cannot get rid of him for long.

When an airplane lands into the Thames with a large, menacing black cloud of smoke and high, monstrous splashes, she knows she won't get rid of him.

The cab stops and Molly walks out. Her fingers tighten on the railing lining the bridge as several other onlookers gather around her. The glint of her wedding ring is no match to the majestic heat of the large fire emitting from the wreckage of the fallen airplane.

Next, on Two Years Too Late…

…is basically the Sherlock universe where our favorite consulting detective returns "two years too late."

*Dearie, I just love my own writing. I basically say that Sherlock kept the sight Molly gave him away, never touched it, and that he never accepted the gift of friendship and care Molly offered. Le sigh.