Postcards from Afar
The hardest part had been to lie, lie to everyone she knew, lie to everyone who knew him- fake tears rolling down my face because I knew the truth.
I knew Sherlock Holmes wasn't dead and the guilt of letting everyone else believe otherwise was killing me.
I saw John cry, John broken and I hardly knew the man but I just wanted to yell at him it would all be okay, but how could I? Sherlock, that odd man had sworn me to secrecy. Meanwhile John grew paler every day, his sadness growing until he never left his new flat.
I could end it all and I wasn't allowed.
I still didn't know why he had to be dead, that's Sherlock for you. He never feels the need to share his mad plans. So I didn't know. I probably never would.
They didn't either, they cried. So many of them cried. Tissues pressed against cheeks catching every drop of salty sadness, eyes swollen and puffy, voices hoarse. People who barely knew him weeping at the loss of the great Sherlock Holmes.
My own tears, my own feelings were so fake, I did not deserve this- the comforting arm that Lestrade wrapped around me even while he was crumbling from within. I didn't deserve the sad smile John sent me or the kiss from Mrs Hudson.
I didn't deserve them or their care.
I was a fake, a phony.
If they knew how much I had lied because he had said so, they would hate me.
Sherlock says jump and Molly says how high.
Not to mention it was illegal. To fake a death, it's illegal. I looked it up after I'd done it, after he had disappeared into the night with only the clothes on his back. Illegal. I Molly had broken the law for a man who didn't care for me and I cared too much for.
I'd still do it again though, for him. For Sherlock.
Just because it felt like I was special to be the only one who knew something. It felt for once he had wanted me. For once I was needed for his great plan, only I could help him. That feeling was one I had long forgotten and he awakened it. He made me feel alive, he always had.
I sound like such a silly little girl.
Maybe that's all I am, I'm sure Sherlock would agree to that. I'm sure he thinks I am silly, that poor silly Molly, she'll do anything for me. Poor little Molly, who always gets used, abused and thrown in the trash.
But then… maybe he does care.
Maybe.
Perhaps.
He sends me postcards, Sherlock does.
Never anything on them, he doesn't tell me what he's up to or why he's there. Just a postcard with a glossy picture on the front, his last was from New York. On the back it just said 'Molly' and the address in his incredibly sexy handwriting.
I've kept every single one, in the back of my underwear drawer. He'd find it silly. Such a pointless thing to do. He's want me to dispose of them, dispose of the evidence but I can't. He touched those pieces of paper, he looked at the picture and thought of me. Maybe he cares, at least I know he's alive. Those glossy pictures, those pointless meaningless things, are important to me.
It's all I have of him.
I miss him so.
I daren't go out in case I meet any of the others. I can't stand their faces. The sadness. The guilt.
One day he will return and everything will be right again.
I won't have this guilt.
But I also won't have him.
A/N This is all written as though it's either Molly's monologue or diary which is why it has no structure. Molly is such an interesting character, she deals with all this abuse from Sherlock but she still cares, and she's still there when he needs her. I think that's amazing- I wouldn't do that for him. So what do you think?