Disclaimer: I do not Sherlock or Molly or anything remotely related to the Sherlock series. All such things belong to someone other than myself.
To Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper might as well have been a painting on the wall: one of those peculiar reprints you find at the dentist's office, notice on your first visit, then ignore until someone knocks it down and leaves a blank spot in its place.
That was what it was like for Sherlock. The first day he'd met her, he had quickly deduced that she was shy and soft-spoken, a reasonably competent pathologist, and fancied him enough to let him run amok in her lab. That was his picture of Molly Hooper, and that was the picture hung on the wall without a second glance. So on the day that someone knocked her down, the day that Molly Hooper disappeared from his life, all Sherlock could do was stare at the empty place she'd left behind.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, did you hear me?" John Watson watched his best friend's face closely, unable to read the emotions behind his typically inscrutable expression.
"Yes, John. There's no need to repeat yourself. We don't need an echo in the room," said Sherlock faintly. He turned towards John.
"Where is she now? No, wait, stupid question. At St. Bart's. Of course." He threw on his coat and headed for the door.
"Yeah, St. Bart's, but Sherlock-" the slammed door cut off the rest of his sentence.
John sighed, and bowed his head.
Sherlock stormed through doors and hospital hallways, pausing only to get directions to Molly's room. But when he finally reached it, he found that he couldn't to make himself go inside. Through the doorway, the corner of a hospital bed was visible, along with several vases filled with flower arrangements. Most, if not all of them were probably from John. He snorted. Flowers! Like some daisies and roses were going to make everything better. Still, Sherlock felt John, his self-appointed shoulder angel prodding him to do the gentlemanly thing.
He spied a man hurrying past with a bouquet of pink tulips. Obviously for a new baby girl somewhere.
"You!" Sherlock dug in his pocket for his wallet. "I'll have those."
"But they're for my new baby niece!" the man protested.
"Here. I'll give you £100 for them. Tell your niece it's a start for university." Sherlock took the flowers and slipped the money into the man's bewildered grasp.
The man gawked at him. "They're just tulips, mate."
"Then I'd say you got the better end of the bargain."
The man shrugged, pocketed the money, and ambled down the hallway, leaving Sherlock standing there with a bouquet of flowers in hand, and a growing ache in his chest.
But then... "Sherlock?" Molly's voice came faintly from inside. "Is that you?"
Sherlock braced himself, then strode briskly through the door. "Hello, Molly." He looked around the room, purposely avoiding her gaze.
"Oh, you can set those on the table, i-if you'd like. Tulips are my favourite. You must have noticed the ones Mum sent me for my birthday?"
"Yes, of course." He couldn't tell Molly that he'd more or less stolen these flowers from a newborn baby, so he let her think the best of him. He was good at that-letting her assume the best about him; getting away with anything because she was too kind to assume the worst about anyone.
"The baby won't miss them, yeah?"
Sherlock's startled gaze shot over to meet her mischievous one, and he stared at her for a moment, before allowing the corner of his mouth to raise in a half-smile.
"I should think not."
He set the flowers on the table next to Molly, fiddling with them for an uncharacteristically long time.
"Sherlock?" Molly asked.
"Yes, Molly?"
"Sherlock, you know… I mean, John told you… I'm dying, Sherlock. You know, right? You always know everything, but…"
Sherlock finally allowed himself to really look at her. He took in the pale face, made even paler by the hospital white. Her hands, competent, sure hands, grown thin and weak from illness. And her eyes, normally turned bashfully away from him, now studying him as he studied her.
"Yes," he said, his voice suddenly raspy. "I know."
"Oh, good. That would have been awkward." She laughed nervously.
Sherlock winced.
"Sorry, sorry. I guess I'm not much good at… at dying, I suppose."
Sherlock slowly sank into the chair that stood next to Molly's bed.
"Molly, there must be something we can do. Doctors? Medicine? Ground-breaking research that only Mycroft is supposed to be privy to? Eh?" He forced a laugh, and Molly smiled a bit.
"No, Sherlock. It's all right. I've known for ages now, so it's all right."
"Molly-" Sherlock cleared his throat, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. "There must be something. Please. Give me something I can do to help."
She sighed and closed her eyes, evidently struggling to find words. Finally, she spoke.
"You know, when my dad died, I wasn't there for him. I knew he was sick, dying, even, but I didn't know how close it was. I was at university, and he told them not to call me. Said he 'didn't want her grades going down for her silly old dad.'" She gave a quick, apologetic smile, a tear starting to trickle down her cheek. "So I… I didn't know until it was too late. And I always wished I'd been there. I wished I could hold his hand one last time and say a proper goodbye."
She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. "And now I've gone and done the same thing. Now it's too late, because I didn't want my mum worried by silly old Molly."
She took a deep, labored breath, and Sherlock shifted in his seat, trying to get the tightness in his own chest to let go. The clock ticked on, steady, steady, counting down the minutes.
Molly turned to look at Sherlock. "My mum was there. With my dad. She was there to hold his hand… to say goodbye for us all. To say goodbye for me. So Sherlock… there's no one else I can ask, and I… I just wish we could say goodbye. A real, proper goodbye."
Sherlock locked gazes with her, then reached out a hand, folding one of her thin, frail hands in both of his strong ones.
"Goodbye, Molly."
"Goodbye, Sherlock."
Sherlock held Molly's hand for two hours and twenty-seven minutes. Then he stood up and walked away from the room, turning only to study Molly's painless, peaceful face one last time.
He didn't say goodbye again. Molly wasn't there, so there was no point.
John met him in the hall outside. "You all right?" he asked.
"Of course. I'm always all right."
"Are you sure? Because it's okay if you're not."
Sherlock quickly rubbed a hand across his face. "I'm perfectly all right, John." He studied his hands for a moment. "I gave her flowers."
"Good. That's good, Sherlock. I'm sure she loved them."
"Yes. She said she did."
Sherlock was quiet for another moment, staring off into blank space.
Then, quietly, "And goodbye. Molly... she said goodbye."