Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.
~ Seeing Double ~
He's being ridiculous, he tells himself.
It's sentiment, nothing more, and it's playing with his senses. Knocking him off balance- Which is a thing not to be borne.
After all, the likeness isn't particularly striking, once the body's turned over.
And if the hands are the same size, the nails cut to the same degree of shortness, then what of it? If the hair is of a similar colour and style as that she favours, that's still no excuse for this ridiculous, insipid... mawkishness which is scratching at his rib-cage. His chest. His heart.
Many women favour bright colours in their clothes, he tells himself.
Many woman are short- statistically speaking British women are highly likely to be under 5 foot, in fact.
He reminds himself of this sharply.
Many women work alone in laboratory conditions, Sherlock thinks, the better to get through their work without the prying eyes of the cretinous looking over their shoulders (or down their blouses) and that being the case, the sight of the corpse before him, murdered in her own lab, should mean little to him.
It's not her, he reminds himself savagely. It's not.
"Get a hold on yourself, man," he mutters to himself, and then has the displeasure of seeing Lestrade look at him and wince in pity. Make a move towards him. He doesn't know about Sherrinford, but he knows about the fallout.
Without a word Sherlock turns away and tries to move towards the corpse. He needs a closer look and that will require his getting his bloody act together, thank you very much. This frivolousness must stop. It must end. He will end it, even if it feels like it's killing him.
Nevertheless he finds himself striding out before he gets within even a foot of the corpse, muttering about needing some air and not having eaten even as the door swings shut behind him.
He stalks outside, pulls out a cigarette and lights it.
The nicotine will be calming, he thinks. The nicotine will make everything ok.
He closes his eyes to savour the flavour and as he does she appears behind them. Molly. His Molly. The woman Eurus made him hurt. The woman he hasn't spoken to in a month. The woman who is resolutely not lying dead in that lab, despite what his mind may be trying to trick him into seeing.
At the thought he snarls to himself, the enjoyment of the cigarette completely destroyed by the reminder of who he's missing. What he's lost. "Bloody Eurus!" he mutters and as he does he hears footfalls behind him.
He doesn't need to turn around to know who it is.
"Fuck off," he says without looking at her.
His tone is cheerful. Challenging.
He gets a snicker in response.
"Doesn't work on me," Sally Donovan says, one head cocked to the side, a distinctly unimpressed look in her eye. "Told the guv' not to call you in when I saw the vic, but he didn't listen." She shakes her head to herself. Rolls her eyes. "He didn't see the resemblance but you do, don't you?"
She shakes her head. "Bloody uncanny, how much it looks like Hoop-"
Sherlock draws himself up to his full- impressive- height. Glowers down at her.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he snaps, and this time Donovan barks in laughter.
"Course you don't," she bites out. "Perish the thought." And she turns on her heel, walks back towards the exit.
Sherlock tells himself he feels no relief at her leaving, but then-
"Life's short," Donovan says, not looking at him. "Your mate John can probably tell you about that. Most of us coppers can tell you that too. So don't be a moron just for the sake of being windswept and interesting, yeah?"
Again that sharp laugh.
"Don't be alone, just for the sake of being right- Even you're not that thick."
And with that she's gone. Leaving Sherlock behind with his ruined nicotine hit and his perilous, unwelcome, entirely ridiculous thoughts. Thoughts of Molly. Thoughts of the future. Thoughts of the hole which her absence seems to have left in his life. He pictures the corpse he's just viewed, the woman who looks so much like his friend that it's making him feel physically ill, and he feels a knot of... something settle in his chest. It's something visceral. Something painful.
It makes his breath tangle into knots and his chest ache and he tells himself he has no idea why- But he knows that's a lie.
Rather than think about it anymore though, he squares his shoulders, heads back inside. This time he manages to examine the body and give Lestrade at least some pertinent details before he makes his retreat. He claims an (entirely fictitious) call from Mycroft and hurries back to Baker Street- He can feel Donovan's eyes on him the whole way there-
That night he dreams of Molly in her cherry-print cardigan.
He dreams of her lying as he saw that woman today lying, spread-eagled and bleeding and bereft of life...
Molly Hooper opens her eyes to find Sherlock Holmes in her bed, for the first time in years. His arms are locked themselves tightly around her waist, and he's holding her to him. Nuzzling into her hair.
"Please," he says softly. "Please, let me stay."
She closes her eyes in pain, wondering how she's going to sleep now, but even as she does so she's already sliding back into slumber, her fingers threaded through his and his deep, even breathing whispering against her ear.
He won't be there when she wakes up again.
She won't be living there, the next time he breaks in.