Prompt: Try your hand at a bit of Sherlock, then. How about Molly and John having a conversation sometime after the events of Reichenbach.
Coffee. Black. Nothing else. It was bitter to taste, impossible to swallow. But it kept him awake, kept him alert. It was enough.
He'd been sleeping too much, staying in bed most days, not bothering to get up. He needed to get out more often, Mrs. Hudson said. He'd left the flat to prove he could leave when he wanted. He had things together; he was able to take care of himself.
"Didn't know you liked coffee."
John blinked, disoriented for a moment. He looked up at Molly, who was standing over his table. He hadn't seen her in weeks. Had it really been weeks?
"Sorry." She shuffled her feet. "I, um…I'll just -"
"No, it's…it's fine." He took a sip from his mug, trying to hide the grimace. "It's good for me." He nodded to the seat across from him, and she slowly sat down, glancing up at him before studying her own cup of tea.
Minutes ticked by, neither of them willing to break the silence that hung over them. He really should have ordered something else. He wasn't in the mood for coffee, and the aftertaste was really starting to annoy him -
"How've you been?"
John scratched at the back of his neck. "Er…you know. I've been…around."
"I figured as much."
"How have things been on your end?"
"The usual." She shrugged, tugging at the end of her ponytail. "Been a bit quiet, to be honest."
He nodded, staring at the dregs circling the bottom of his mug.
"John…I…I'm sorry."
He nodded again. Everyone was sorry. That's all anyone could say. I'm sorry to hear about your friend. I'm sorry he jumped. I'm sorry he lied to you.
I'm sorry that he felt the need to be a big fucking idiot and throw himself from the roof of a hospital.
"I am, too," he replied, biting the inside of his cheek.
"It gets better," Molly said weakly. "It really does."
"Mmm."
She opened her mouth several more times, as if to say something, but decided against it at the last minute. She finished her tea, getting up and giving him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, smiling sadly as she left the shop.
He lay his head on his arms, sighing. He knew how the rest of the day would go: he'd walk home, see a few more people who would offer fake condolences, walk upstairs, climb into bed, and sleep. Maybe shower. Who knew at this point?
He left the mug on the table, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the door.