Had a bit of inspiration today for a prompt so old D has probably forgotten she ever gave it to me. A Molly Hooper-POV fic to the tune/emotion of Life on Mars. I kind of got it wrong, because it was supposed to be her relationship with her father, but I've been stumped with that for months. So here you go, D, hope you like it. And all the rest of you?...
Enjoy!
Molly hadn't grown up in the city. She'd not even grown up near the city. When she was sixteen she and her then-boyfriend-one-true-love had run away, with just about nothing in their pockets but lint and hope that the big city would make something of them. London had been huge, blisteringly full of people for the two teenagers from the country. They'd stuck it out together for a month before Thomas had gone back home, tail between his legs. Molly had stayed and made things work, as hard as they were. She'd been happier here.
Her parents weren't around to fight anymore, and her choices and her bills were all her own. It was in this barely-getting-by life that she'd met Sherlock. He'd been tall and gaunt, shivering and twitching in clothes that used to be nice but were now ratty from living on the streets. Molly hadn't been stupid enough to take him home with her the first time she met him, but it had been alright to let him snuggle—high as a kite—against her shoulder in the darkness of the movie theatre. The film was something bright and happy—a bubbly treat for herself after having a few pounds left over from bills and rent.
She'd been in the city long enough by then to know a druggie when she came near one, and could also almost tell when one was going up or coming down.
He had been harmless throughout the movie, too high to properly pay attention but just conscious enough to keep just his head resting on her shoulder, his arms clutched around one of hers. Eighteen year old Molly hadn't thought anything of it, really, having had to quickly get used to the closeness of other people in the city—did it hurt anyone to let this other boy be just a little bit closer? In later years, once she was in a better flat and a real job, Molly was just a little bit upset with herself. But not by much, because that was the only time it had ever happened and it had been Sherlock.
When the film was over—the credits rolling—Molly had made as if to stand up. The boy—who couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty—clutched tighter to her arm for a split second before rocking back in his seat a little and fishing in his pockets. Molly mentally prepared to go for her pepper spray—all sorts of illegal, she knew, but this little interlude had been fine right up until now. Now she needed to risk arrest, for her own safety.
"I—I've got tickets for the whole day. You liked it—I know you did, you laughed when they—you can stay, we can watch it together. Please?"
In his hands, hands with long, square fingers and less grime than Molly had expected, were five more tickets for the film. She'd looked from the tickets to his face—able to see it for the first time now that the lights were coming up and the staff were wheeling in some bins to clean the place—and her eighteen year old heart had broken for him. Very slowly she reached out and took one of the proffered tickets—she had liked it, and if she had the money she would've gone to see it again. The boy's smile had been relieved, on the edge of happy and Molly couldn't help but let her own lips twitch a little also.
"Sir—Miss, we need to clean the theatre, if you're going to be seeing another film you can come back in about twenty minutes," Molly started at the hesitant voice from behind her, and the boy clenched his hands so fast he crumpled his tickets a bit. He'd stood up, wobbly on his feet, and led the way out to the lobby.
"Can I—" he twitched his elbow out a touch, wanting Molly to put one or both of her hands through his arm. She knew it was for stability, not anything else. Fairytales didn't happen, she'd learned that lesson the hard way when she'd come to London two years ago with Thomas. The boy steered them towards the concessions, being deliberate with his steps as he reached his free hand into his pocket and withdrew a leather wallet that had seen better days.
"Got a date this afternoon, Sherlock? Thought you were just by yourself for the day," the cashier said after the boy—Sherlock —had ordered a couple of sodas and crisps. Molly had blushed, stammering until Sherlock had put a hand on the one she held his elbow by. It was odd how stable he looked, but as she stood right next to him he was trembling like a leaf.
"Just a friend for the day. Can—can I use one of my tickets for her? She'd like to watch it aga—again." The woman, whose black nametag said Lorraine, had nodded with a smile as she handed over the treats Sherlock had gotten them.
They sat together on a little bench outside of the theatre, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon. The boy, Sherlock, had looked even worse for wear in the bright daylight. Molly didn't open her crisps because he hadn't—it felt rude—but she did take a few sips of the drink he'd gotten her.
"It's silly," he said, not moving a muscle or gesturing at all, "I—I come here when I take too much. When I'm afraid—so that someone will find me if—if—and I was afraid today. Very afraid. But you seemed like someone I could count on. Someone who wouldn't just let—let me die."
Molly, only eighteen, hadn't had anything meaningful to say to that. There wasn't anything to say, other than the obvious Come see me when you feel like that, I wouldn't ever just let you die. That had come later, but Molly that afternoon couldn't have known it. So, because she'd been unable to say anything, she'd taken his hand and held it until he stood up and toddled them both back to the darkness of the theatre to watch the film again.
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