A/N : Not much to say, this one's for my dad – miss him a thousand, billion, times.
Sherlolly, I don't own Sherlock and all mistakes are mine.
oo
It had been eight years since Sherlock Holmes met Molly Hooper for the first time. Eight long years and for some odd reason, he never really knew her. Not in the physical sense, but, he was beginning to feel like he was missing some huge part of her. It was as if he didn't know her all to well. Sure, it had never bothered him before, but, one can say that Molly had 'grown on him'. It was a mere affection due to her excellence in her field, nothing more – or so he kept telling himself.
He had deduced her, of course, from the moment he saw her. She was only in her mid-twenties then. Still not jaded, despite the fact she worked around corpses and learned of their cause of death on a weekly basis, if not daily. She was Molly Hooper, the ever optimist who believed in true love and finding 'the one' which was probably most of his initial hostility against her at first came from. He didn't like that she was untouched by the horror in the world which she lived in.
But, he was wrong, she was not untouched by horror – she had seen a fair share of tragedy and heartbreak, he learned the later over the course of their acquaintance, and she still managed a smile. He always thought those smile was for herself, as if she was trying to convince herself that would eventually get better or there was such thing such as a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He found out later, the smiles, they were always for his benefit – he looked sad, that was why she had smile. It was one of those moments of epiphany that he had while he was beaten into a pulp.
Today though, she was not smiling, not even for him. She didn't even notice how he had come bursting through the door which was odd seeing he was never subtle. She was staring at the wall, thoughts too far for him to reach, so, he stood watching her until Lestrade came knocking not five minutes later.
"Molly, we got a fresh one," The Detective Inspector was inappropriately cheerful and had a new tie on which led Sherlock to a conclusion – special occasion. And strange prints on the tie would say it was picked out by a child, but, it was not Lestrade's birthday, no – that was last month when John had made Sherlock go out and actually buy a present – Sherlock got him a book on properties of fungus and he knew Lestrade had not even read a page.
"Greg, right, I got a text earlier, the body's not here yet – should be any minute now," Molly replied, professional, but lack something that made her, her.
Sherlock was not quite sure why, but, he was unhappy to see her forlorn expression. He tried to open his mouth and speak, unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on who you're asking), the morgue door was pushed open and the crime scene team was rolling in the fresh body in.
They fell into a routine, he watched her as she worked and minutes later he and Lestrade bid their goodbye and let Molly continue with her autopsy. And Sherlock Holmes was not happy. The look on Molly's face haunted him that by the time he reached Baker Street, it was all he could think about.
"Molly's not happy," He spouted as soon as he entered the threshold, he noted John had opted to drop by at the house instead of the morgue – his off day, he wanted to stay away from the hospital, Sherlock could hardly understand.
"What did you do?" John asked in an accusing tone, hardly wrong for him to assume Sherlock had said or done something to offend the pathologist.
"Nothing," Sherlock spat a monosyllable answer.
John gave him an incredulous look, "Have you met you?" He sighed, "You must have said something and God knows the woman had put up with you a lot and she might have had enough,"
"It was not me," Sherlock was frustrated, he understood John's conclusion and can hardly blame the man, but, he was frustrated still, "I walked in and saw her looking sad, I don't even know why,"
"Did you ask why?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "No, Lestrade walked in before I could and Molly acted as if everything was normal," he huffed, "he didn't even notice, and he called himself a detective inspector,"
"It's his job title and why didn't you stay and ask?" John was starting to feel as if he was talking to a five year old.
"She had an autopsy to attend to," Sherlock said in a tone that John knew too well meaning; 'don't be an idiot, John, she was working'.
"Find a time, talk to her or I'll sick Mary on you," John threatened, still unconvinced it was not something Sherlock had done.
And that did it, Sherlock was not fond of Mary's certain set of skill, not when he knew it for a fact.
He locked himself in his mind palace shortly after John started to speak about something else, partly realizing his friend leaving and the night had turned into morning. His mind was on her, her sad expression – it was something he had never seen before; not that kind of sad. It was sort of she was brokenly patched up and longing.
Mrs Hudson's startled squealed broke him from his thoughts a hour later, she was holding onto the breakfast tray like her life depended on it.
"Sherlock!" She yelled, "I thought you're not up yet,"
"Never went to sleep," He said boringly.
"You know that's not good for you," Mrs Hudson started to nag him and he was only half listening when his phone (which he was sure John left to charged) beeped, indicating an incoming text message.
The lab just came in, it was poison, rare, something that you don't normally get in the UK, you should check with his acquaintances or family. I'll be off for today – if you need anything, find me tomorrow. – Molly.
Three words; find me tomorrow.
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed together, forming a worry line. Molly had never put off his importance before, she would even deliver his request of certain body parts (not hers) when needed. And yet she was going to avoid him for the whole day – that never happened.
It was not his place to be concerned, but, he was up on his feet and dressed within moments, stalking out of Baker Street with a biscuit Mrs Hudson had practically shoved into his mouth.
He was heading to her, he had to find her.
But, she was not there when he rung her bell and when he attempted to pick her lock, her neighbour noticed him and spoiled his plans. Fortunately, the man with receding hairline gave him much needed information;
"She ain't here, out early in the morning like she did every year,"
Every year.
Again, he missed something.
He asked, quite nicely, if the man knew where Molly was heading and received a shrug as an answer. So, he turned to the only person who he knew could find her.
"Mycroft, I need Doctor Hooper's location right now," He didn't ever bother saying hello.
"Newcastle," Mycroft gave him the short version of an answer for once.
"Why?" Sherlock asked before he could stop himself.
"Her father's death anniversary, obviously," Mycroft's tone was indifferent, but, clearly he was surprised that Sherlock didn't know.
No, it was not obvious to Sherlock because he never knew. Out of the numbered years he knew her, he never knew this fact about her. She was always there when he needed her and he never asked about her family or friends, he didn't need to. It was not his area.
Sherlock knew he could possibly pay greatly for asking his brother a favour, but, he found himself not caring about that prospect, "I need a car,"
A beat.
"I'll do you one better," Mycroft answer before ending the call.
Five minutes later a car pulled up in front of the apartment building and Sherlock entered without asking. He was driven to a private air strip where a small plane awaited and an hour or so later, he found himself in Newcastle and another car to take him to his destination.
He had expected to be driven to Molly's childhood home. He was not.
It was a cold place, the cemetery, filled with cold stones and the dead, as they rotten away. Even the green grass couldn't do better and that was where he found her.
She was sitting, in front of a large block of stone, carved with someone's name who shared her last name. From the birth date and death date, Sherlock deduced that the person who was buried there was her father.
"How old were you?" He asked, even when he could tell from the dates.
She turned, startled to find him there and gasped his name, "Sherlock!"
"Control your tone, you'd wake the dead, Doctor Hooper," Sherlock attempted a joke as he claimed the spot next to her.
"Why are you here?" She asked, ignoring his terrible excuse of a joke.
He shrugged, "Needed you in London and you weren't there,"
"I told you that you could find me tomorrow," She sighed, she just wanted the day to herself. It had never been a problem for years since she could always get away for a day or two without the consulting detective realizing she was even gone.
"Tomorrow's too long, how long have you been here?" He said boringly, the way only he could.
Molly knew there was nothing she could do to rid of the man, "I got here around eight-thirty, three hours or so,"
"So, when you texted me, you're already here?" He was trying to figure out how she managed to find out a lab result if she was not there herself.
"I asked a junior staff to text me when she got the result, I know how you hated to hear it from someone else," She explained, knowing him too well.
He nodded, accepting her explanation.
Satisfied, he tried he repeated his initial question, "How old were you?"
She blinked, considering whether she should share that information which Sherlock could have easily gotten from another source, namely his brother. And then she realized he already knew by subtracting her age with the number of years since the death year on the stone.
He was being kind; Sherlock Holmes was being kind in his own way.
"I was five," She confirmed his calculations.
He nodded, urging her to continue without words.
"It was summer," again, he knew this from the date, yet, he didn't say a word, "and I remember my mum picking me and my brother up from my aunt's – we have been staying with them for a while, my mum couldn't handle two kids with my father slipping away, fast,"
"How did he die?" His tone was softer, but still him.
"He had a heart disease which could have easily been rectified now, but, in the eighties, well," She sighed.
He acknowledged with a nod.
"I can't even remember him, he doesn't feel real to me, but, I miss him," She confessed, wiping away a drop of tear that had betrayed her and rolled down her cheek.
"You don't have to remember someone to miss them," Sherlock said without thinking, he just felt like it was something he should say, and that was the first, going with his feeling – he had a heart after all.
She turned to him, giving him a weak smile, "Thank you,"
Two words that left Sherlock breathless and speechless at the same time, and suddenly, he didn't know what to do with himself, he was no longer so sure.
"For what?"
She smiled again, "For coming, for saying nice things, for not being Sherlock for one day, well, less Sherlock-ish,"
"That's not a word," He said quickly.
She rolled her eyes, "I know,"
"You return home every year on this day," Sherlock changed the topic from himself, which was an accomplishment when one considered his ego.
"Yes, surprised you didn't notice," She chuckled.
He didn't say a word. He was learning on how much he was missing things. The little things he once thought was significant, like that freckle that was hiding away at the edge of her breast that he could see when she was wearing a low-cut shirt.
"You miss him," He was stating the obvious, to stop Molly talking about him, "And you coming here every year is a way for you to feel like you're close to him,"
"A bit," She admitted, "It was more like I was trying to remember, because I can't quite remember. Sometimes it felt like I remember him, and there are memories which I am not sure whether it was real at all,"
"Like you're filling in the blanks?" He offered.
"Yes, like filling the blanks you're not quite sure if you got the right answers because no one ever gave you a clue," She smiled again.
He noted that it was a sad smile. He never thought people could smile and look as sad at the same time.
"You could have just asked your mum," He pointed.
And she shook her head, "She looks sad, whenever I try to talk about him, she looks sad,"
"You don't want her to be sad," He understood.
She nodded.
He wanted to keep asking, but, he didn't want her to be sad. So, he just sat quietly and let her have her private conversation with her dad in her head. He figured she had to be speaking to him in a way and since she had not said a word, he could only assume she was speaking to him from her head or heart, whichever worked.
It was two hours before he knew it and she was prepared to leave, getting on her feet before he was even on his.
"Come on, you must be hungry, did you even eat breakfast?" She offered her hand and he took it.
"Mrs Hudson forced a cookie into my mouth," He complained.
She laughed, "Someone had to, and God knows how you survived years without a proper meal,"
"I do eat," He huffed.
"Chips do not count," She countered, pulling him along like a child until he tugged her softly and looped his arm around hers, and they walked hand in hand.
It took him further three months before he asked her out, even then she misunderstood that he was asking her to make him a cup of coffee and had actually brought him coffee.
In her defense, it was something Sherlock would likely do and she was acting accordingly.
He, of course, had to set the record straight and to avoid any doubt; he found the simplest solution which required no words. He took a hold of her in his arms and kissed her; kissed her until he was convinced she would never doubt his intentions when it came to her ever again.
And he accompanied her, every year, to her father's grave. First there was just the two of them, as a couple, the next year, they were married and the following year after that, they came with their first born and years to follow with their second and third child. He accompanied her to see her father every year, until they were both buried next to each other, miles away from her father, but, never too far.
And he never told her that he went back the week after that day at the cemetery to have a talk with her father. And he never told her he had promised her father he would always take care of her and love her because he knew that she was a princess to her father and it was only right for him to treat her as his queen.