When Molly Hooper woke that morning, the house was filled with a strange kind of emptiness.
It was not the usual quiet, greeting her every dawn- no, that she was accustomed to. Rather, it seemed to be a kind of an echo, a faint remembrance of something that had passed. A presence lingered in the air- like a candle, blown out, that leaves its scent wafting.
Has Sherlock come back? she wondered.
When she turned over in bed, the crinkle of sheets contrasted the dull stillness. Not even the traffic could be heard outside- how strange, especially for a Monday. Beside her, Toby's side rose and fell soundlessly, as if even the cat refused to make a whisper. Molly gave him a pat, then swung her legs over the side of the bed, her nightgown loose around her frame.
Beyond the window, a single siren rose and fell.
When she got home that night, Sherlock was already there.
She made a small squeak and immediately regretted it. "How did you-"
"Your lock was a simple five-tumbler combination, no reinforcement, easy enough to pick." He drew out the last word with a click of his tongue, then looked over at her, as if it should've been obvious. "Really, Molly, you need to do better. There's a career robber living two doors down from you. Wouldn't want to take any chances."
"Um…" She had adjusted the strap of her purse uncomfortably. "Well, come in then!"
Sherlock just stared at the wall, his face unmoving.
Her smile dropped. "What- what will you do now? I mean, now that…" She tried again. "Can I help you… with anything?"
Sherlock blinked. But he didn't answer.
The rooms seemed pale in the morning light, washed out by the whiteness of the dawning sun. Molly's feet were soft and bare against the wood floor as she made her way to the kitchen. A wisp of the emptiness settled in her chest, making her lips tighten. She crossed her arms against herself as she stopped at the edge of the sitting-room.
"Sherlock?" she called.
The room felt empty with her voice.
In the corner of the sitting-room laid a folded blanket, unused and thrown across the couch back. A crinkled pile of newspapers sat on the coffee table. The couch cushions sank with the dip of a body's weight, faint enough to have never been there.
She stood looking at it for a moment, half expecting Sherlock to whisk in from somewhere with new samples and a new case.
Don't be silly, she told herself, clutching her arms tight. He's not been back, I think.
When she looked around, she could see a thousand little traces of Sherlock's presence. The pile of newspapers, moved furniture, a cigarette package in the bin. A light, resting a few inches from the center of the table with its lampshade askance, as if a man's elbow had knocked it. There were new smells, too; she could just barely catch a whiff of nicotine and pine scent that hovered, unseen, around her apartment.
It was all so strange. She thought she had command, and poof, this man shows up and knocks her off her footing. She thought this apartment was hers, was set, and then Sherlock whisks in and changes everything. It didn't even matter, she thought, sitting down on the couch. She didn't care at all, really.
But she could feel something different when she turned and looked at it all.
Molly would peek out the kitchen as he paced, back and forth, back and forth. "Are you all right?" she called. "I mean…"
Sherlock would turn to her, regard her with patronizing interest. "Yes, Molly, perfectly fine." And then he'd turn back ahead, his long face brooding, his eyes flicking to unseen corners. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind, throwing up his hands and yelling when the answer kept eluding him. She thought she heard "Moriarty" once- a dash of a word, and yet it frightened her.
And when he wasn't troubled, he was bored. Setting fire to newspapers, snapping at the telly. Molly trusted him to know what he was doing, and left him to his own devices. She tried to ignore his screaming through the walls.
Sherlock didn't need her company. If he'd wanted it, he would have asked.
It wasn't for lack of trying, though. "Monopoly?" she'd asked one night, holding the box aloft. The subject and her smile dropped as Sherlock gave her a withering gaze. He always managed to make her feel incompetent. Even as he watched the papers burn and curl, there was a sense of her not knowing what he knew.
And then there were those times when he lay motionless on the couch, fingertips tented, focused so inwardly. Always a problem on his mind, always an unseen variable to be detected. What he was planning, Molly never knew. When he entered that state, nothing could rouse him.
He was a man possessed. Molly had seen him like this before, of course. Yet it was so much stranger when it was in her own house, when her life passed by and this man stayed fixed.
The coffeemaker sputtered in the corner, and Toby wound around her feet. Spreading jam over her toast, Molly tried her best to focus.
When Sherlock came back, she'd remembered why she liked him. There was something cool and dark about him that she couldn't possibly explain. But Molly hadn't been naive enough to give herself a second chance. No, she couldn't think of his face, the way his blue eyes caught the light when…
Molly allowed herself a bit of wishful thinking, then snapped back and shook her head when she realized what she was doing.
It was good to help- letting him stay over, faking his death, the lot. But now, she didn't know how to handle this feeling. People like Sherlock, they came and went. She was a good old girl, staying in place and trying to get by.
As she reached for a glass, she couldn't help glancing out the window. The sun was dusting over the streets, and a few people walked by, huddled into coats. There were a couple that were tall, and one with dark hair- but none with that smooth, confident stride. She couldn't help feeling just a little relieved and disappointed.
Got to toughen up, I suppose.
He had already gone. And she didn't want to feel this way, but this man was a mirage; a dark mystery that she kept chasing, leaving her thirsty for what she could not have.
And then, she had opened the door to Sherlock wrapping his long scarf around his neck. His coat, gone from its hanger, rested snugly from his shoulders. He slid on his gloves, giving Molly a sidelong glance.
She had nearly dropped her purse. "Are you leaving?" she asked. "I mean, are you…"
Before Molly could take a step, he was in front of her. He smiled kindly for a moment, his eyes crinkling around the edges. "Molly."
Molly's mouth felt suddenly dry. Time seemed to slow, to bunch up, to roll over on itself.
Then, he took her hand and kissed it.
His lips were cool against the skin of her hand. His blue eyes were so piercing, so still.
A small smile curved his lips. "Thank you," he whispered.
Molly glanced down at their hands, then up at Sherlock. She wanted to say something to him, but she just shook her head, feeling more shocked than anything. "But…"
He looked at her. "It's time."
She couldn't argue against him.
The door made a wistful bang as he shut it.