When Molly walked into the Morgue at St. Bart's one very early morning, she wasn't expecting to see a figure bent over a body. But once she got over the initial shock, she knew exactly who the person was.
And who the body was supposed to be.
She stood back, watching him. Face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs. The light from the hallway illuminated the whole room, but he didn't even notice.
She felt the saddest she ever had. Maybe worse than if Sherlock was really dead. This was worse.
Oh god, why had Sherlock ever gotten her involved in this?
She took a few slow steps toward him.
"John?"
His breath hitched, but he didn't look up. She got closer to him, closing her eyes and sighing, laying a light hand on his shoulder.
"John."
He stopped sobbing, composing himself so quickly it was rather worrying. He lifted his head, staring straight ahead at nothing.
"Evening, Molly."
Tears were still running down his face. Oh god. She had to tell him.
She had to.
No, I can't.
You have to! Look at the poor man. Can you really live with yourself seeing him so sad for no reason?
It's for Sherlock.
Oh, of course. That changes everything. You'll do anything for the man you love.
Not just for him. To keep John safe. It's to keep John safe.
"Why would he do that? Why would he kill himself?"
Molly looked down, surprised out of her thoughts by John's soft voice.
He looked over at her, the light gone from his eyes. They looked broken. He looked broken. She just wanted to break down, tell him everything. She was so close to just breaking down. But somehow, she managed to keep herself composed.
"...I don't know."
Yes, she did!
I can't tell him.
John stood up, facing the doorway, but looking straight down at the floor. "Of course you don't."
And then he left, footsteps receding down the empty hallway.
She clenched her fists, taking a shaky breath.
The things I do for you, Sherlock.
