It did not hurt less with time.
Some part of her had desperately hung on to the seductive, whispery hope that his throaty, sharp voice and flashing eyes would fade away with time as all things do. And perhaps they would someday, but she should have known better than to think she could have ever forgotten his mind. Her friends had confided in her, whispering empathetically that it was harder to fall out of love with a man who could not breathe.
Molly grimly supposed the same must apply for the living dead.
A year had passed since his death, and she could not avoid his grimace in the newspaper, curls tucked beneath the hated hat. The newspaper noted the anniversary of his death but none would come to visit his grave, of that she was certain. She had to visit his grave. She couldn't help it. It was like some part of him had passed away with his fall.
(Would John ever forgive her for knowing?)
Molly shakily stumbled out of the cab, heart trembling in throat, after pressing coins into the driver's hand. She always left flowers at his grave, always would - she could speak to him there in the language of flowers. Molly knew tragedy's relentless grip all too well and knew to speak flowers just as well. She spoke it with fluency. It was the only way to say hello, to say goodbye.
(
"I will contact you," he had told her, voice flat but still vibrating with intensity. When she started to speak, he held his hand up to silence her and continued quietly, eyes darting from her face to the dark, long car awaiting him. "I will go mad if I don't, and I have no desire to go mad."
"Thank God," She breathed even though she didn't know why she said it. Perhaps she said it because he was already a little mad.
"But do not reply," his hands grasped Molly's forearm, squeezing them once to emphasize his point. She could barely comprehend this, not with him standing so close, eyes burning into her's. "If I text, email, send letters - even if I bloody call, do not reply. Unless I am standing before you, looking into your eyes, do not reply."
She said okay with a slight flutter of a nod.
"No matter what I say, no matter how much I beg - never reply."
)
Sometimes it hurt worse knowing. It was her that knew he had been shot, that he was devastatingly bored, that he was beginning to appreciate was lemon meringue pie, and it was her that knew that I miss John, Lestrade would have loved this fight, I am so, so sorry and It hurts so much - I didn't know it was possible to hurt so much. There had even been an I almost miss Anderson's face. Almost, mind you. It would be nice to see his face – such an improvement from this scenery.
Molly would visit the grave to reply because she would go mad if she could not, and she had no desire to go mad. It was difficult to tell him all she would like to tell him even as she spend more and more on flowers. Her wages were good, and she had money to spend. It was better, she thought, to speak to Sherlock Holmes in flowers than to speak to him in alcohol like she had spoken to her father.
Tamarisk crime because he was bored, and she could almost imagine the glee the cutting curves of his face as he fingered the stem the same was he would treat crime. There were yellow roses happiness to tell him she was happy (she was sometimes happy), and that all was well (sometimes), and that she hoped he would feel happy as well (all the bloody time). But today was different.
There were marigolds because she was grieving, grieving his death and life. Clementis to tell him how beautiful (and horrible) his mind was. Forget-me-nots to tell him she loved him so, so much (she wished this was not so) and to please never forget her. There were lilies because he had died. There was a single lucerne because he had lived.
And hemlock. There was hemlock. To tell him that one day, one day he would be her death. And that she loved him for it.
She would leave these flowers at his graves, talk to him, and then she would walk away like she always did, always would. If John was there (unlikely because John left his flowers and milk cartons by Sherlock's skull), she would not speak, but the flowers would speak for her. That was the plan from the moment she had wearily left the flat to the moment she stepped into the chilly night air of the graveyard. Except something was wrong.
The graveyard was always quiet. It was not the familiar quiet of her night shift at the morgue but an unsettling quiet that crept up her arms, sending her heart into shivers. Still, with the urging of time, she had accepted the chill. The hum of noise, words and chatter, some voicing scaling higher above the others – now this was unnerving. There were flashing lights and a bright yellow tape, sealing the graveyard off. She knew what the yellow tape meant – it meant stay away or else. She clenched her fists, trying to edge closer without attracting notice, but within mere meters of the yellow tape, someone caught sight of her.
"Ma'am, you need to please - " one of them begun to say at the sight of her, then cutting off and narrowing eyes. "By God, it's Molly Hooper, isn't it? From the morgue?"
"Yes," she said, relieved she was recognized, and that she recognized the speaker. There could still be hope to leave those flowers by his grave. She would get no sleep tonight if she didn't (not that she would have gotten sleep anyways). "Hello, Sergeant. Is Greg about, by any chance?"
Sally Donovan nodded, tipping her head back. "Course he is. It's personal."
"What happened?" Molly asked, falling in pace with the walking sergeant, ducking underneath the yellow tape to join her.
She hesitated before she replied. "Grave vandalism."
Molly stopped mid-step. "Not his."
The sergeant laughed throatily, smiling somberly at the distraught woman. "Of course it's his, Doctor Hooper." She said. "He's the only one with the sheer nerve to throw tantrums even after death." Her face darkened. "I never wanted him dead, you know. I really never did."
"I know," Molly said gently. She didn't, of course, but there was little else to respond with.
Sally went on speaking, but it was as if she was speaking more to herself than to Molly. "I was scared. That it would happen again. That he found a different drug, one that worked better. He always lets you down. I was a bloody idiot. I was just scared. I wanted him to be the murderer, after he died, you know. Because then at least it wouldn't be my fault." She looked up into the darkness of the night sky. "I think he's bored up there. In hell. He'd be the one to be bored in hell. Only him."
"Only him," Molly echoed with a shiver of a laugh. He would have been more bored in heaven.
The two laughed again. It was easier to laugh than cry. They were guilty. Sally because she led him to his death; let that hateful idea root in her mind. You couldn't kill an idea. Molly because she had killed him – except not really.
The sergeant exchanged one last nod with Molly before light nudging her towards Greg's direction. Somehow Molly hadn't been aware she had been walking, didn't realize when they came to a stop in front of the gravestone where an empty casket crumbled beneath her feet. "Molly," Detective Inspector Lestrade – or Greg – greeted her quickly, moving forward, grasping her hand, pulling her in for a tight hug. There was still alcohol rushing through his veins – she could tell. She was there.
They had all (John, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly) gone out for dinner earlier that night to try to let his death go ("To drink our sorrows away." John had said with a snort – but that was an accurate description.). It hurt so much knowing that she shouldn't have been there, not when they were the only ones who could truly suffer, truly grieve, truly let go. Because they all thought he was dead. (A part of her thought so, too.)
(
John and Lestrade [why was she calling him by his surname? Only he {Sherlock} did that] drank more than they should, and Molly had drunk less than she should. Mrs. Hudson did not drink at all.
"The food is good," John had said when none of them would speak.
"Sherlock liked the coffee here," Molly said.
"He didn't like it. He told me it was the foulest thing he ever had the misfortune to drink." Greg - not Lestrade - had said.
Mrs. Hudson smiled wearily. "He often lied though, that irksome boy."
"He did like the coffee here," John said, and somehow him saying it made it final.
A few moments later, all but Mrs. Hudson a little drunk, Greg said, "He lied to me. Lied!"
"I wouldn't have thought that was much of a surprise." John said dryly.
"That bastard." Molly said, mimicking John's tone.
They all laughed because it was easier to laugh than to cry.
)
They had all separated that evening, not intending to see one another again for the rest of the day. Mrs. Hudson to her flat, still unable to bring herself to rid the flat of Sherlock's various possessions. John went out to the pub to drink some more. Lestrade went to work (night shift, he had said). Molly went to grieve.
"Detective Inspector," Molly responded to his hug as warmly as she could on that cold, cold night. "Bit late, isn't it?"
"Night shift," He told her, but his voice was detached now, talking to the gravestone.
"What happened?" Molly asked finally. "His body... it's still there, right?" Please say yes, she thought. She did not know what she would do if he said no. They had never considered the casket being stolen. It had all been far too fast. She began shivering at the thought of an unidentified form, slithering the casket open, drinking in the lack of body, the thin layer of dust.
"It is. Someone just... wrote on the gravestone itself." Greg said, glancing at the gravestone once again.
They had thought about writing something, a message of some sort. He had already left a message – a phone call, a goodbye note. He already said his last words. There was nothing more to say. There was nothing left to say.
Molly followed his gaze, already bracing herself for the shocking impact of the words. It could be anything, she knew, but she knew it would not leave her unmoved. Eyes carefully traced each letters, read the words, swallowed in the sentence. "Ah," She choked out.
"Yes," said Greg, trying to measure her reaction.
She could not remember how to breathe. There was a voice in her ear, his voice, telling her calmly that her lungs needed the oxygen, that she needed to inhale and exhale. She stuttered a high pitched goodbye to Greg, already stepping away. She needed a gust of wind on her warm, flushed face. She couldn't think, not with everyone there.
Her phone hummed, lighting up in her coat pocket. Logic told her it could be her sister telling her everything was better, her brother telling her that her nephew was fine – it could be the bloody Queen of England. Her heart told her it was Sherlock Holmes.
Do you believe in Sherlock Holmes?
-SH
She forgot what oxygen was, what inhaling and exhaling was.
Molly replied to him, speaking to the air because she could not respond any other way. The flowers were still in her hand. She let them fall into the pond, watching them momentarily.
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," said Molly, repeating the words etched into the gravestone. He couldn't hear her, but she had to tell him so anyways. Her fingers sped away at the mobile phone's keyboard, typing out a response that she would never send.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes, and I always will.
Even though one day you will be the death of me.
-MH
Molly edited in one last thing before she deleted it.
I love you.