Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. This is unfortunate, as I wish I were brilliant enough to write them. But alas, there is fanfiction to fill in the gaps. So without further ado:
[Masquerade]
Molly was a smart girl.
Intuitively, she knew that she would never mean anything of substance to Sherlock. She knew that someone special, someone captivating would enthrall his brilliant mind, and if they were lucky, perhaps even his heart. She knew she was not clever or brilliant enough for him; she would never capture his attention with her red lipstick or Christmas dresses. She knew this, and yet she kept trying. She kept offering coffee and gifts and she never stopped asking or hoping or yearning. She stood by his side regardless of his calculatingly cold nature, and never doubted him in spite of his questionable morality. She always trusted, always persevered.
Molly's greatest strength was also her greatest weakness: she refused to give up hope until there was no hope left to give. And sure enough, every day proved to her how little her existence mattered to Sherlock. His two greatest strengths were observation and deduction, and she was a mere tool to assist him in his strength. He could just as easily attend a different mortuary, but she liked him. She trusted him. He had easy, unqualified access. And logically, whatever is the easiest solution to a problem, one utilizes that solution.
Molly was smart; she knew she was a fool.
But she also knew he was hurting. Perhaps if she were not so enthralled, perhaps if her father would not have contracted a deteriorating disease she would have missed it, but she didn't. The power of observation was vital in her line of work; one tiny detail could completely alter a person. So it was with Sherlock when he thought no one was looking. His face, though still composed, held an ever-so-subtle sadness that she knew all too well.
A bittersweet mask.
His expression when he thought no one was looking – the glazed, introspective concentration, the straight, tight lips, the sorrowful, plaintive eyes – she recognized from her father in his final days. But when the doctor's eyes were upon him, Sherlock spoke resolute, offered advice like it was his job (which it "technically" was), and for all intents and purposes, acted perfectly natural. However, his eyes, even in these moments, spoke the truth:
He was pretending.
Pretending not to be scared, or perhaps pretending the fear didn't exist. For the first time, Molly witnessed Sherlock acting as a fraud. And it wasn't because the newspapers said he was, nor was it because of a supposed suicide note. Sherlock Holmes was a fraud because he was pretending to be strong when he was weak. He was pretending everything was okay when it wasn't. The mask he wore, like all other masks, was perfect in every way, but one: it didn't cover his eyes.
When the doctor was not watching, Molly saw a reflection of her father. When the doctor was watching, Molly saw another reflection.
Of herself.
She knew because she too wore a mask. A mask of composed happiness, of never-ending hope. When he was watching, she became someone she was not: a giddy schoolgirl, a bumbling conversationalist, a foolish coward. She knew she was overcompensating, even compromising herself in order to gain his attention, but the thought of him seeing her – truly her – beyond the awkward, clumsy mortician she always appeared to be terrified her. Because in all honesty, the real Molly Hooper was nothing special. Beneath the hopeful, starry-eyed façade, she was ultimately sad and hopeless.
She didn't count.
And it was for this very reason that she was brave. It was for this reason that she laid all the cards on the table. For the first time, Molly would reveal her hand: she would show Sherlock her feelings, her observations, her caring, even when such honesty condemned her, not rewarded her. She would call him out on his fraudulent mask and she would warn him. Warn him that pretending is a lie, and that lies have prices attached. It wasn't a threat, but a guarantee.
Her price was a life condemned to loneliness. To neglect. A life of yearning and hoping and waiting and never receiving.
His price…
…well she was not as brilliant or observant as he; in fact, she very much doubted anyone could ascertain what, specifically was ailing Sherlock Holmes. He was the great detective, after all. She knew she was one of the precious few – if not the only one – who would detect that there was, indeed, something amiss. And that knowledge somehow made it so much worse. Sherlock was hiding. He was faking. He was fearing. What on God's green earth could cause Sherlock Holmes to fear? Any other day of the week he would mostly likely dismiss the idea of fear at all, going on some nonsensical rant stating fear is a reaction, nothing more.
But he was only human. And with that realization came her conclusion: she knew what she must do.
It was a gamble, but Molly was both wise and foolish enough to attempt such a strategy. For in normal circumstances when one is afraid, one seeks comfort. And while Molly was wise enough to know her comfort would not mean anything of substance of Sherlock, she was also foolish enough to attempt it regardless.
Because she would never wish someone to wear the mask she wore. She would never wish someone to feel such heartache: to pretend, to ache, to hope – alone. No one should bear that burden. Not even – or perhaps especially – the very man she wore her own mask for: Sherlock Holmes.
"You look a bit like my dad."
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-hannie00